


Mortal One, With The Sun in His Hands

by UniversalSatan



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Historical Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Western, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cowboys & Cowgirls, Dean Winchester is Bad at Feelings, Dean/Cas Big Bang 2020 (Supernatural), Explicit Sexual Content, Herd Animal Death, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Illustrations, Initially Inspired by S6E18 Frontierland, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Minor Benny Lafitte/Dean Winchester, Minor Character Death, Minor Charlie Bradbury/Jo Harvelle, Minor Gabriel/Sam Winchester, Minor John Winchester/Mary Winchester, Mutual Pining, Original Song, POV Dean Winchester, Plot-heavy, Sexual Content Censored Version Available, Slow Burn, Torture, Wingfic, hidden identities, period-typical smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:07:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 135,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27214666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniversalSatan/pseuds/UniversalSatan
Summary: Cowhand Dean Winchester is notorious for risky gambles, rightfully proud of his horse Impala (who has the prettiest speckle in the West), and is stubbornly certain that his life is in apple-pie order. His comfortable existence crumbles apart when he's saved from a fire-and-brimstone death by a mysterious wanderer he discovers to be the infamous White Bandit, mythical Angel of the Desert. While his savior is as fearsome as the legends say, Dean can't help but draw closer to the quiet and endearing man the real Bandit turns out to be... even if he doesn't yet realize they're the same person.This time, Dean may have to reach out to the flame instead of recoil.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 46
Kudos: 97
Collections: DCBB 2020





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is not only my first DCBB but also my first bang ever, and I could not have asked for a better experience, so I thank y'all for letting me have this opportunity. I've been super excited to share this story for a VERY long time and it's been incredibly difficult keeping my mouth shut, but here it is at last!!!
> 
> I swear the stars must've aligned, because I was _so_ incredibly lucky to have [Artmetica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artmetica/pseuds/Artmetica) as my partner, whose art is absolutely breathtaking and has left me in a state of shock since art claims lmao (still, I'll occasionally remember the pieces and stare at them for way too long, and I'm so glad yall have the opportunity to do so as well).
> 
> **[Here's the link to the actual pieces](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27525355), which also includes some character profiles (since two of the scenes hopefully shouldn't make sense yet ;)).**
> 
> Of course, a thanks to [ping](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pingnova/pseuds/pingnova) for helping with a few technicalities here and there, _and how could I forget the excellent cowboy/faith-related rants we've shared?_
> 
> I'd also like to give a quick shoutout to [maggie](https://cas-s-sinoatrial-node.tumblr.com/), who put up with my endless teasing and tormenting as we discussed our writing (and the one memorable occasion I decided to sleep through art claims last minute and woke up to 50 messages, rip maggie i'm so sorry), the skuroo/fuck it. golira squad ([brenna](https://forsea.tumblr.com/) (for helping me plot... some things), [cam](https://aro-alien.tumblr.com/) (sabriel is for you xo), and [tit](https://toshidaves.tumblr.com/)), for putting up with me randomly bringing it up in the groupchat, and the dcbb discord for just being super awesome and encouraging.
> 
>  **CENSORED VERSION:** Any chapter with sexual content will have a link in the author's note at the very beginning to a view-only Google Doc of the chapter that I have modified to exclude anything explicit, if you are uncomfortable reading the content. In a sense, these modifications would make the fic simply Mature, given the violence and other warnings that are present.
> 
> There is also a lot of Western slang used throughout the fic, so I threw together [a comprehensive list of definitions organized by chapter](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1HzVn1q71Jceb1cmNYYCTCt-MUKfuml_cZN_Fmczrsao/edit?usp=sharing) that you can use as you please, and it includes a link to the source if you want to get your hands on some broader research.

“I’ll bet three.”

The chips clatter into the betting pool, drowned in the din of the saloon. Dean’s gaze flickers to one of his fellow cowhands—whose brash voice fights other drunkards in suggesting the next song for the poor chap at the piano—before settling back on the old belvidere in front of him. His companion bites at the tobacco pipe in his mouth, staring intensely at the pool.

“Raise two,” he finally decides, smoke lazily swirling from his mouth as he pushes in his own chips. His eyes flicker to Dean.

To avoid cracking under the pressure, Dean shifts his attention back to the musician, who is now coaxing out the chords to a ballad.

_Beware the desert in the night,_  
_Where if you find yourself alone,_  
_Then pray to God you haven’t tread_  
_Where the White Bandit tends to roam._

As he thinks, Dean bites his lip, flipping a chip between his fingers. If he wins the bet, he can surprise Sammy with another studying book or two, as well as a bagful of sweets. If he folds, he can still—barely—afford the ink and cheap booze his old man asked for in the first place. If he _loses,_ however…

_Deep from the shadows of the night,_  
_The desert angel will descend._  
_O God, why have you forsaken me,_  
_To rest with this cruel end?_

Dean slams down the rest of his whiskey, surging forward and pushing two chips into the pool to ignore the burning in his throat.

“That’s a call,” he adds, leaning back again. His rival nods, expression unreadable underneath the neat bristles on his face. When he sets his cards down on the table, Dean can’t help but hold his breath.

_O, humble is my weary trade,_  
_And in my home a lover waits._  
_Dishonest is the man who cries_  
_For reason of his doomèd fates!_

Three fours and a pair of kings.

Dean barks out a laugh before he can control himself, and his opponent raises an eyebrow at him. Nodding in acknowledgement, Dean reveals his own hand.

Three fives and a pair of twos.

It _shouldn’t_ have won—just looking at the conflicting hands is infuriating, not to mention how their coveted hands defeated so many odds—but the other man is also laughing as Dean shoves the chips to the side.

“Alright, pony up,” Dean says, and is honestly surprised at how easily the other digs into his coat pocket for a wad of cash.

“If it weren’t for this round, I would have thought I was getting it in the neck,” he comments, sounding thankfully more amused than anything. Ballast and cards out of the way, he attends to his long-since smouldering pipe, shaking the ash into a nearby spittoon and rummaging around his coat pocket for a pipe cleaner.

Dean grins to himself, counting the cash before winking at the old coot. “Nothin’ but out and out talent, ‘m afraid.”

At least this time it was.

_He rides atop a phantom horse,_  
_Flying faster in my stead._  
_My desp’rate hope the Bandit steals,_  
_White while I lay bathed in red._

“So what now?” his companion asks, idly looking into his near-empty glass of old tom. “Another few nights in the bed-house? Find some good firewater?”

“Mm, no, nohow.” Dean chuckles to himself, looking meekly at his hands. “Actually in town for an errand, but I thought I’d get somethin’ fine as cream gravy for my brother.”

“Your brother?”

Dean grins, glancing to the side at the man. “Yessir. I’d do anything for that kid.”

“Hah.” He takes a sip of his drink. “You remind me a lot of how I used to be.” Dean doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he lets himself listen to the melody that drifts from the piano.

_They say there’s one who’s by his side,_  
_In time, they’ll be each o’ers demise._  
_The Righteous Man will laugh at death,_  
_But the angel never dies._

“Do you believe all that?”

Dean blinks. “Huh?”

The man is also staring at the pianist in a brown study. “Do you believe in those stories?”

_In time, the Righteous Man shall fall,_  
_And out of flames he shall arise;_  
_Only by him can suns be reigned,_  
_For a mortal never dies._

“I—“ Dean pauses, frowning. _What is he supposed to say? That it’s all bullshit?_ Men tell stories, but being out in the desert with only the cattle and the cowhands for company, there’s only so much that can be explained. He clears his throat and tries again. “These are just tales; they keep every corned bastard entertained.”

“You think there’s no truth to them.”

“I never said that.”

The man chuckles, and Dean bristles defensively.

“Somethin’ funny?”

“Not at all. You’re a smart man, Winchester.”

 _Now_ Dean laughs. “Yeah, _all my eye_ … that’s my brother.”

It looks like the man is about to say something but is immediately interrupted by someone stumbling into him and sloshing their drink all over the man’s coat. The man stares down at his coat with resignation, but their new guest starts swearing at him.

 _“Oud’ta way, asshole,”_ he shouts, too loud for their proximity. Dean is up almost immediately and stepping forward, roughly shoving away the bum towards the door.

 _“Keep moving, you drunk son of a bitch,”_ he bites back. For a moment, it looks like the drunk is reaching for persuasion, and Dean is all at once vividly aware of his own pistol at his side, to which his hand unconsciously flies. He’s not even bothered about the danger of starting a bar fight, all too aware he can beef the man with his eyes closed. “I _said… keep moving.”_

And thank the heavens above, the drunk narrows his eyes before allowing himself to be dragged away by another patron.

Dean only turns around when he hears chuckling, _again_ , but finds that his company is also standing up now, his sleeves rolled up and his wet coat hanging over the crook of his elbow.

“All bark _and_ bite, I see,” he says. Dean glares at him but doesn’t comment.

“ _Fuckin’ barrel boarder_ ,” he mutters instead before gesturing to his companion. “Sorry about the coat.”

“Wasn’t you that did the deed. I was getting warm, anyhow, and I almost got a show on top of that.” He nods at him, and Dean scowls in return. “I should probably head off; it was a pleasure, bucking the tiger.” His arm is outstretched. Dean stares at it longer than he probably should, taking notice of the brand-like scar on his forearm.

 _Huh_ , he thinks absently, _that’s not what the Fraiser ranch brand looks like._

Offering his most charming grin, he takes the man’s hand, shaking it firmly. “The pleasure was all mine.” He winks before patting the pocket where his gamble win is stowed away. The man shakes his head disbelievingly, already walking away with a hand up in a half-hearted wave.

“We’ll meet again, Winchester. Dark times are upon us.” He pauses, staring out at the sunlight filtering through the glass windows and saloon doors, before laughing to himself. “Well… I suppose that’s not _quite_ the right word for it.”

Dean had really thought otherwise, but perhaps this man is drunk after all.

* * *

_Hello, Padre._  


_I am entrusting you with this parcel in the hopes that it does not leave your possession until its rightful owner comes to claim it. He is not yet aware of his role, so take heed of my instructions: a man the image of the chapel’s namesake will pass by in the calm of a storm with no natural origin. This storm is darker than anything you will have seen before and will cause great destruction in search for what I have left with you. It is imperative that this lands in the right hands for the sake of many souls in the future. Do not let it slip from your grasp._

_I have no more business with this trade, so I trust you will keep your word. It has been a long time since I’ve heard from God, so I’ll bid you good luck instead._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did, in fact, write the song in the fic, which you can listen to for reference [here](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1cX225GJh8jEpbVt8h7BppQU8AmCm8qUz/view?usp=sharing) (but, uh... proceed with caution lol, as the only take I have atm is the one I did in the middle of the night while kinda wine drunk...). ~~perhaps when I'm not so sleep-deprived, I'll whip up a better version and stick it on youtube~~


	2. Santa Fe Trail I:  Ashen Gift of Rebirth

Impala’s head is bent toward her master, peacefully nibbling on the richer grasses at her hooves. Her ears twitch and she swishes her tail in lazy contentment.

Her master Dean Winchester is seated just in front of her, watching the rolling valleys beneath his feet. There’s a canteen in one hand and his arms hang over his knees as he watches, waiting for the sun to rise.

Dean likes it out here. The world offers him only the sky and the prairie, rolling for endless acres into the heavens… Dean knows it all like the back of his hand: he grew up here, after all. It’s familiar enough territory that it’s somewhere he calls home. (Not that he knows much else, but he’s been around). That’s why he’s happy: tending cattle on his beloved mare for the rest of his days, Dean Winchester is in apple pie order.

Almost as if she senses what Dean is thinking, Impala nuzzles under his ass, making him yelp in surprise and shift away, startled from his thoughts. He laughs when he realizes she’s just trying to graze on the good stuff he’s been sitting on.

“Baby, there’s more than enough to go around for all of us here,” he says, scratching her muzzle fondly.

The first rays of sun peek up over the horizon, adding to the orangey-pink tang of the clouds above, and Dean hears hooves behind him slow to a trot as they approach. To pretend he isn’t listening, he takes a sip from his canteen as he keeps his eyes trained on the valley below. His tensed muscles relax only slightly when he hears a thump of someone landing on the ground.

“I knew you’d be out here.”

Dean recognizes the voice immediately.

He sighs and his shoulders sag. The sunrise is beautiful, and thankfully his brother is standing a few paces behind him so his cornstalk body doesn’t stop Dean from appreciating the dawn. He rests the canteen down onto his lap.

“Need something, Sammy?” Dean asks. Still, he refuses to turn.

“Cutting right to the chase? No waxing poetic about being ‘lone on the range?”

“Shaddup.”

Sam walks up slowly to his brother, given away by the crunch of dry reeds under his boots. Dean feels his presence directly behind his shoulder; he can hear how Sam shifts his weight from foot to foot, biding his time; the hesitation should put Dean on edge, but he doesn’t want to sacrifice the tranquility with which he’s been blessed.

“Dad says he wants to speak with you,” Sam finally reports. His voice is hushed, like he too is appreciating the tranquility of the sunrise. Dean huffs, ticked off _. _

“What does the old man want?”

“Not sure. Sounded important though.”

Dean grunts an acknowledgement. His fingers trace the rough leather of his canteen pouch.

“ _ Son of a bitch… _ I still gotta round up the strays before the herd wakes.”

“Dad said the boys can take care of the cattle, Dean.”

Sam doesn’t say anything else, opting to wait for Dean’s response. Pink clouds float across the horizon, dimming the sun’s brilliance.

“This better be damn worth it,” Dean grumbles, grudgingly getting to his feet. His brother is behind him, cautiously studying Dean with his thumbs looped in his jeans.

“I can deal with it if you’d rather—“

“No,” Dean says firmly, passing his brother with a pat on his shoulder. “I’ll deal with the old man.”

Offering a trademark grin, Dean easily pulls himself up onto Impala. The sun decides to peek out from behind the clouds at that moment, and Dean squints, pulling his forgotten cady hat from where it hangs around his neck back onto the crown of his head.

“I’ll see you around, Dean.”

Dean tips his cady towards Sam, already leading Impala around. “If it’s another booze run he wants, I’ll see if I can lass enough girls to the line to letty for the two of us while I’m there.” Sam rolls his eyes at his brother’s cocksure brashness, but Impala is already cantering to a gallop, so whatever insult leaving Sam’s lips is long lost to the wind.

The sky is returning to a bright blue, and the long shadows of daybreak veil the sleeping cattle in their slumber. Dean guides Impala around the animals, heading to the other side of the herd. There’s another vaquero in the distance, slowly making his way through the waking critters, waving lazily to Dean. (It’s probably Rufus, who drew the short straw for the sleepless night shift).

About twenty minutes from the herd is a spacious but cozy cabin hidden in a grove by the creek, recognizable by the large rock formation that rises from the old leafy trees and the old barn that rests in the prairie forefront of everything else. Dean can’t help but smile fondly at the sight of the wooden dwellings for the other cowhands beside the cabin, which are ever-familiar in the sense of home they bring.

Dean ties Impala to the porch of the house, knowing it won’t take too long to speak with his father. Even so, he doesn’t bother stepping on the porch, opting instead to head around to the posterior of the building.

The creek is a bit of a hike down past the house, but, nevertheless, he can hear the running water from where he starts. Dean would spend countless scorching days (and even dark nights, with hardly enough light to see where he was going) running around the creek and the surrounding grove with Sam, and the presence of the mere environment relaxes him, if only slightly. There’s a loud bang of a gunshot, but Dean doesn’t flinch, all too familiar with the haunting sound as much as he is with the babbling creek and the rustling leaves.

“You wanted something.” Dean has his arms crossed as he leans against a tree. He watches as his father inspects the pistol in his hands, his back to his son, fiddling with some minor adjustments before aiming and firing at a distant target once again.

“I need you to get something for me.” His back remains turned. Dean scoffs.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific than that.”

John Winchester turns around, still holding the pistol up for inspection but sparing the liberty to shoot Dean an irritated glare. “I have a package that needs to be picked up. In Santa Fe.”

Snorting, Dean rolls his eyes. “Santa Fe? Are you fucking with me? Can’t you just do it yourself?”

“I’m not askin’ no adds, Dean; I’m working on an important project right now, in addition to the last order that was placed.”

“ _ What _ … And you couldn’t get it with your last shipment? Not enough lead to go around?”

Unsurprisingly, he ignores Dean. “And get there across lots — the sooner, the better. You’ll find the note on my desk.”

And with that, he swivels around and aims at the target, shooting the pistol until he runs out of rounds. Dean takes that cue as the end of the conversation, so he huffs out an irritated breath before he pushes himself off the tree, meandering his way back around the cabin.

In approaching Impala, Dean strokes her forehead and takes her reins, leading her to the stables. She follows obediently like she always has, having spent her entire life at her master’s side — Dean raised her from the time she was a foal, after all. Her dam was John’s horse, and Impala was born right about the time Dean turned twenty. He had ridden other horses and Bobby was even training him how to break the broncs, but Dean and Impala were inseparable the moment she was large enough to ride.

Dean leaves her in her stall, making sure she has enough water to freshen up before their trip.

“Rest up, baby,” he murmurs, running his fingers up and down her inky-black coat. “You’ll need it.” Giving her one more solid pat, he leaves her be so he can prepare for the journey.

There’s no one else in the cabin, now: everyone is either out with the herd or doing morning chores around the ranch and shop. The old wood creaks underneath Dean’s boots as he rushes to his father’s office, the door squeaking on its hinges as he enters the room. On top of the large desk in the center of the room, there’s a mess of papers, empty whiskey bottles, and gun parts strewn about, extending to the various workbenches lining the walls.

Dean understands that his father is busy, running the best outpost and repair shop of Winchester rifles and accessories in the Kansas area—hell, Dean knows guns inside and out because of the family business—which is why he lets Bobby and the rest of his cowboys build up the Singer Ranch around the outpost to assist in the maintenance of the other buildings. Bobby also acted more like a father to Dean and Sam than John ever did, but they were always made to understand just how much John actually did for them.

In the middle of the desk, in a spot where all of the papers and knickknacks are haphazardly cleared, sits a small, folded note. Dean picks it up and pockets it, not even bothering to take the time to read it until later.

Dean is aware that he should leave as soon as possible if he wants to get to Santa Fe in a week without baking Impala, so he makes his way to the kitchen to pack enough water, pemmican, bread, and firewater to last him the trip there. Up in the room he and Sam share when they help their father with orders, Dean collects enough eagles to buy his way out of any bad box in addition to any other necessary items he needs for the trip, leaving a note of his own for Sammy to explain his situation.

With a twinkling of a bed post, Dean is already making his way back out to the barn, unwilling to waste his time to bid his father farewell. Just outside, he sees Jo a ways away and waves to her, watching as she brings a pail to the water pump. Impala is up and ready to go inside of her stall, perking her ears the second Dean makes his way into the building.

“Ready to go, baby girl?” he coos, attaching all of his cargo to her saddle. Leading her out and mounting her, Dean checks his compass one last time before clicking his tongue, drawing her to a gallop.

Dean is lucky in the fact that it’s not very difficult to find the Santa Fe trail, especially since it’s still within the realm of prairie in which Dean is more than familiar. The blur of endless grasslands that pass by is almost therapeutic, and Dean whistles like a damn songbird the entire way. It’s only a few hours until he reaches the Cimarron cut-off of the trail, stopping at the Lower Springs for a meal as Impala drinks and grazes.

With his back against a tree trunk, Dean watches Impala by the spring, wading into the water a few paces for a better reach. He chews his own food slowly, relishing in the taste to make it last longer.  _ Whatever _ ; he’ll treat himself to better grub once he gets to Santa Fe.

Really, if he wants to be careful, he should stay here for the night. There’s enough brush to camp out hidden from the rest of the desert, and the water would be refreshing for the morning, but Impala still has some juice in her, and the trip would be considerably shortened if they shaved off some of the miles today. Perhaps he’ll rest for a bit longer, and then veer off the trail very slightly for the night once both he and Impala tire.

There’s still quite enough of the almost-summer sun left in the sky, but it’s now that Dean remembers the note his father wrote for him, and there probably isn’t a better time than now to actually figure out what the hell he’s picking up on this godforsaken trip.

The paper is wrinkled from being in his pocket for so long, but luckily not damaged yet:

_ Near the plaza, they are building St. Francis where La Parroquia stood before our time down San Francisco Street. Proceed until you pass a locked door with a beggar out front. Tell him my name and he will lead you to the owner of the box. _

_ Don’t forget to greet Padre Abascal before you leave. _

_ Right _ . Dean huffs. Of  _ course _ he is assigned vague and mildly suspicious tasks that don’t disclose their purpose to him. He should at least enjoy his time while he’s going to be there, so he grins at the prospect of holding his rash promise to Sam and finding a decent bodega while he’s at it. At the thought of a potential bit house in his future, Dean rummages around for his flask, relishing the gut warmer that he managed to snag on his way out. Maybe he’ll pick up some books for Sammy, too.

Checking his compass out of habit, Dean stands up again, stretching any kinks from the ride. The desert provides no shelter for anyone, not even the sun, and Dean wants to use the sunlight to his advantage as much as possible. He whistles to Impala and they’re back on the trail in no time.

It’s been quiet for the past few hours. Granted, it’s almost never that Dean passes anyone on the trail, but he’s seen his fair share of immigrants to know that the trail is put to good use. There’s also the concern of bandits of any sort, but Dean is confident that he can shoot anyone bold enough to challenge him with his eyes closed, since he was basically born with pistols in his hands. Wild animals can also prove to be a challenge, but Dean has Impala more than well-trained, in addition to his reliance on her trust in him as her master.

The trail changes very little over time. Sure, as they head southwestwards, perhaps the soil is just that much drier, but it’s the same grass and scattered rocks in different clusters, all but a blur in the long run. Dean almost longs to see someone for the adventure of a conflict, but in all honesty, it would probably be better to reach Santa Fe as quickly as possible without distraction. He lets Impala slow to a walk, allowing her to conserve her energy as he begins to scout the endless plains for a decent campout.

Dean didn’t notice them before—mainly because they creep up behind him—but dark storm clouds eventually threaten to take over the sky. When Dean finally looks over his shoulder to acknowledge them, he’s greeted with the odd phenomenon of the low-hanging sun in one direction, and the rolling cumulus clouds eating up the other side of the sky in the other. They’re malicious with intent and look to be a wall at the end of the world, but it’ll be a dry thunderstorm at its worst, judging by the temperature the late afternoon continues to provide. Still, not wishing to be caught by the storm, just in case, Dean clicks his tongue for Impala to up her speed, willing to settle on any large rock formation or brush that will provide some sort of protection.

Sure enough, just as the clouds are beginning to reach for the sky above Dean’s hat and a distant rumble reveals their true intentions, Dean stumbles upon a decent little overhang and vaults off of Impala. Securing her reins to a jutting rock, he grabs his blanket and whiskey flask, settling down for the night against the most comfortable ground he can find.

Dean doesn’t, per se, have to go to sleep now. Granted, it’s a bit earlier than he’d like, and it would only be a few more hours until he was at the Point of Rocks, but Mother Nature isn’t giving him much to do other than to drink himself to sleep and watch the passing storm. It’s not unusual for a natural disturbance of this caliber to happen while Dean’s on the road, so he’s not perturbed in the slightest. Impala swishes her tail, and Dean reaches up to pat her shoulder, singing to himself the songs he and the rest of the cowboys would recite around a campfire.

He didn’t even realize he had fallen asleep, but when Dean jolts to wakefulness again, something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong.

The sky is still dark—hell, it’s probably nighttime—but flickering light illuminates the rock above Dean and reflects against Impala’s sleek coat. Impala herself is panicking, whinnying and stamping her feet in an attempt to loosen her reins. Adrenaline starts to pump through Dean’s veins, making every sense alert and his entire body quiver with energy. Dean blinks and pushes his hat off his face, scrambling to his feet the second he pinpoints the source of the light.

Flames devour the grasses of the scene in front of them. Lightning must have struck some unfortunate plant, but the fire is consequently spreading quickly enough to put both Dean and Impala in imminent danger. Dean leaps to his feet and pulls his bandana over his mouth and nose to block out most of the smoke. He stuffs his flask into his overcoat before shoving his still-rolled-up blanket into its place on Impala’s saddle. Releasing Impala’s reins, he practically jumps onto her back, steering her to the only direction the desert fire is not crackling.

It feels like no time at all passes, yet at the same time, it feels like the incident stretches on forever. The fire is much worse than Dean had assumed, as one too many close calls leaves him worried that Impala had been singed. Each and every direction seems to be consumed with light, heeding to the unpredictable path the flames carve. Dean has no idea where he’s headed anymore, nor where he actually is, mind set on finding any body of water that can shield him and his mare. He curses to himself, already regretting leaving the spring all those hours ago.  _ Just where the fuck is the Cimarron river? _

The heat is suffocating. The smoke is prominent enough that it waters Dean’s eyes, but he can tell by the ragged way that she’s breathing that the fire is definitely affecting Impala as well. His knuckles are white with how hard he’s gripping her reins, like his life depends on him holding on.

_ By God, this must be what hell feels like. _ Dean is trying his damndest to steer them both out of danger, but without so much as a creek in sight, it feels like it’s all above his bend — not to mention it seems like each escape feels closer and closer, the walls of fire closing in on the two of them as time ticks by. He chants a verse of “ _ C’mon _ ”s and “ _ Let’s go, Baby _ ”s, desperately venturing to keep a calm mind in the face of death.

At last, the flames must have slithered too close, because Impala screams with pain and bucks, catching Dean unawares and ergo flinging him off her back. It’s been a hell of a long time since Dean has been grassed, and he’s not prepared for the way his head bounces off the ground or the sharp pain in his left wrist. He watches, helpless, as Impala gallops away, leaping over flames to seek her own safety.

Dean is left alone with nothing but agony and an inevitable end. He grits his teeth, attempting to stand or even crawl away from the approaching flames, but his head spins and his ankle bites back, forcing him to slip back onto the hard earth once again. Airing his lungs won’t do much but contribute to his final words, so he prays that he’s been good and that Sammy will forgive him.

Perhaps it’s just the throbbing of his head or his desperation to hold onto the last thread of life and hope, but Dean swears up and down that he sees an ethereal rider through the flames, descending onto the earth on a rearing white horse. It’s almost like they have sweeping angel wings spread out behind their visage, snuffing flames out around them with the force of their presence.

And just before Dean has time to question his vision, his consciousness succumbs to darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun reminder that the last scene was [illustrated here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27525355), winkwinknudgenugde.


	3. The Masked and The Mended

Death… is worse in person.

Dean takes a moment to realize that he still hasn’t… ceased from existence. It takes him another few moments to register the throbbing ache his head is currently enduring.

So…  _ suffering _ . Pain. Either Dean has died and gone to hell, or he’s still suffering on this mortal coil. Either way, he’s floating on the brink of consciousness, groggy and unsure of reality.

Groaning, he tries to roll over but is immediately impeded by the sharp spikes of pain that flash across his body and make him wince back into his original position. Taking a deep breath, he squeezes his eyes shut even tighter before opening them with determination, gradually easing himself back up into a sitting position.

The first thing he sees is a blazing fire directly in front of his feet, glowing blindingly in the still-dark night. A scene suffocated with smoke and flame clouds his vision, and Dean instantaneously struggles to back away, breath heaving for a desperate grasp of fresh air before he’s crippled by a fresh wave of vivid pain. It is in this moment of forced pause that he manages to calm himself down, ignoring the rough rawness of his throat by listening to the pop and crackle of the wholly tamed campfire.

Dean blinks, letting himself adjust to its brightness and pointedly ignoring the agony saturating his every limb. His eyes narrow when they realize his boots have been pulled off and neatly placed to the side, and the ankle that he keeps twitching erratically to ease the itching discomfort is bound in rags.

At last, his eyes adjust and consequently notice his company sitting quietly on the other side of the campfire. Out of instinct, Dean’s hand flies to the pistol at his side.

“Who are you?” he growls, and almost instantly regrets the action when his lungs cough up whatever hoarseness the smoke left behind. His entire chest hurts, and when he brings his good hand to his ribs, he winces at the tender spots beneath his fingers.

The other figure stares at him — in fact, Dean assumes, he’s been staring the entire time. His head is cocked to the side, hood of his woolen-white poncho only partially shading the navy-blue mask concealing the upper half of his face. His bandana is—oddly enough—also white, but is currently tucked under his chin, allowing Dean to notice the dark stubble that covers almost every inch of exposed skin. In turn, the combination also highlights his jawline rather nicely, so Dean takes to studying it because it’s the only thing he can.

Dean opens his mouth to try again, only now thinking that he would kill for some water to stop the itch that threatens to start his coughing fit up again. He pushes through anyway. “ _ Who are you?” _

“Why ask a masked man for his identity?”

_ He speaks _ , is the first thought that runs through Dean’s mind, and then,  _ he must have been through a lot of fires, with the gravel in his voice like that. _ The genuine seriousness in the stranger’s voice pisses Dean off just that much more.

“I’m not interested in dying right now, thanks,” Dean bites out, but the man’s frown only deepens in confusion.

“I’m the one that saved you from death.”

A pang of guilt pulls his shoulders taut, but he stubbornly refuses to acknowledge the fact beside a soft hum.

Instead, Dean takes the time to really process how much damage he’s endured. One side of his ribs is more bruised than the other, but it’s his head, ankle, and wrist that agonize him the most. Just like his ankle, his wrist without his riding glove (which is also set to the side) is supported with wrapped rags. There are definitely scrapes and gashes on his hands and face, but all of those seem to be cleaned and bandaged if especially bad. It was actually rather impressive how well he had been taken care of, and here Dean is, ignoring the angel that is responsible.

When he looks up to suck in his pride and say something, he’s taken aback when he realizes the stranger had silently crept to his side, holding out something in offering. Dean’s eyes roam from the indifference in his chapped lips to the way the duster underneath his poncho pools around where he’s crouched. Dean frowns up at him, infuriated that he can’t read what he’s thinking.

The stranger thrusts his hand forward again, saying “for your pain.” Like it’s obvious.

Dean’s gaze flickers down to see what is being offered.  _ Woodchips _ .

He grimaces. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?”

It’s almost funny how the stranger pouts, tilting his head in confusion.

“Willow bark.” His voice, as low as it is, is soft, like he’s trying to calm a wild animal. Dean almost wants to punch him at the thought. “You’re supposed to chew it.”

Dean hesitates. While he’s still skeptical, his mind is more blank than anything.

The masked stranger shifts on his feet, retreating the hand that holds the willow bark as he reaches for the canteen at his hip, strung over his shoulder. “Forgive me, I’ve forgotten: would you like some water first?”

Dean barely nods before he’s reaching out, eagerly twisting off the cap to welcome the soothing liquid down his parched throat. As he slows down in his desperation, Dean feels only somewhat guilty for downing all of this stranger’s water, but something in the intrigue his companion stares at him with pushes that particular shame to the side.

The canteen is empty when Dean hands it back, but when he clears his throat, he finds that he feels just that much closer to being back to normal. His grin is apologetic in nature, and when the masked stranger offers the willow bark again, Dean accepts. He winces at the strong woody taste and the way the bark saps at the rest of the moisture that remains within his mouth.

Though the man has already retreated to his original spot, seemingly content with the silence, Dean finds himself doing the staring, question upon question bubbling and boiling over each other in his head. The man keeps to himself, picking up the cactus leaves that had been set down to the side and resumes shaving off their spines with a knife. Dean watches in wonder, desperate for any distraction from his aches.

“Cactus-carvin’ a hobby?” Dean asks around the willow bark, stuffing it into the side of his cheek like a chipmunk. The man doesn’t look at him, but he huffs in amusement, the hint of a smile breaking from his lips. Dean can’t help but feel a small sense of triumph.

“Are you hungry?” he asks instead. Leaning forward, he cuts the cactus leaves into strips, letting them fall into a frying pan by his feet. When he finishes, he brushes his hands off before searching his bag for a jar of grease.

Dean’s face scrunches. “You’re going to  _ eat _ … the cactus.”

“Nopales. I found some plants nearby.” With a stick, he coaxes some charcoal from the fire on which to place the frying pan. “Though—if you’d prefer—I picked some tunas from the plant as well.” Dean is already opening his mouth before he sees his companion spear a prickly pear onto a stick. He holds it over the flame, burning off the fuzzy spines that coat its surface.

“Yes, well…” Dean huffs, barely suppressing his own grin, “I’m not adverse to trying.”

The man’s expression is mostly obstructed by the shadows cast by the flames, but he nods all the same before resuming with his cooking. Dean shifts uncomfortably, partially from the finally receding ache in his limbs (he is  _ definitely _ going to have to pick up some willow bark in Santa Fe) but also from the setting silence. Usually, Dean likes to find something in which to fill that empty space, but this mysterious stranger doesn’t seem much like the talkative type, and Dean still doesn’t fully believe he can trust the man, so he holds his tongue.

Despite dodging flames for a good portion of the night, Dean isn’t too burned aside from a few singes on his overcoat and armas. His injuries will be a pain in the ass to deal with, but at least he will only be travelling for the remainder of the week.

Dean wonders if his family heard of the prairie fire, or— _ he hopes to God not _ —perhaps even crossed paths with the phenomenon. It’s bad enough that he barely escaped his own deathbed, but to have his home and his own kin suffer the same fate? Even though he vaguely remembers thinking of Sammy before he truly bit the bullet, pleading for his forgiveness, Dean would rather live it all over again than let his family be subjected to that same horror.

There are many that believe that Dean Winchester is utterly fearless — this is almost, but not entirely, true. Dean is as good as a sheriff in any cattle town where the folk are familiar with his antics: those subject to his calm stoicism transform into angels in his presence, trembling willow leaves at the mere sigh of the breeze. And those subject to his unbridled fury, the passionate rage that is drawn out from his deepest, darkest core? Well, it is probably safe to say those victims don’t often live to tell the tale.

This is why those who know of him say that Dean Winchester is fearless. (Though, it should be mentioned that it is fearlessness that goes hand in hand with stupidity). Only those who are foolish or ignorant choose to challenge his blatant valor, and Dean is the one to pluck the rattlesnake from his belongings and carelessly toss it away. He has no fear of gambling, violence, or the dark… which allows him the clever façade of an unbreakable being.

See, our fears make us who we are. Some of us wash and clean and wash again, just to be sure. Some of us keep our distance, barely even thinking of the pain a small bite would give when the skittering sensation of scuttling scrawny legs against sensitive skin is absolutely revolting. Some of us stay far from the edge, nauseous with the sickening thought of “ _ What if?”. _ Some of us are never the first ahead of the last behind, always merely a touch closer to comfort so that whatever creeps in the dark will take no notice.

And Dean Winchester? Dean Winchester is a martyr.

Sure, this quality hasn’t ended in his death yet, but he fiercely protects his role, shielding the weakness of the mere thought of losing what is dear to him.

So when he thinks of his home, his personal haven he will live and die in, succumbing to the blazing heat of the prairie fire, his blood boils. When he thinks of the horses, loyal and resting in the barn with nothing more to do than wait and greet death, his head spins and his fists clench. When he thinks about John, Bobby, Charlie, Jo…  _ Sam _ … their agony, their… them being taken away from Dean… it’s a physical ache in his chest that desperately cries for release.

There’s a selfish desperation to protect himself, to convince himself he’s  _ not _ that selfish, so he broods to protect their emotional wellbeing instead.

_ Oh _ … and then there’s the case of his father. Dean’s stomach turns when he remembers, thinking of forcing his father to lose another family member to the hungry heat of fire.

Mary Winchester was everything. She was a mother, and she was a wife. She was kind and brave and strong and beautiful. The horses always liked her best, and she’d always make Dean’s favorite apple pie for every special occasion. Bandits quivered under her wrath as they looked down the barrel of her revolver, but her arms were soft and her voice was warm when she sang Dean to sleep every night.

Of course, this was all very long ago. Dean was only four and Sam six months when John returned from a trip…  _ alone _ . He looked to be falling apart at the seams, eyes blank and expression hollow. He shook his head when Dean asked where Mom was, brushing him away as Dean clambered desperately around his legs. Dean was the one who clung to baby Sammy, holding his bundled figure tighter as he eavesdropped on his father speaking to Uncle Bobby. Something inside him wanted to cry, wanted to  _ mourn _ , but another part of him didn’t understand, didn’t get that Mom was just… gone. Sammy, innocent and ignorant, cooed and babbled in his arms — Dean was helpless to bite his lip and grin back, determined to shoulder the brunt of the loss.

Apparently, on what was supposed to be nothing but a quick errand run to what is now Abilene, John and Mary had a run in with some bad folk. (John never did elaborate, and when Dean asked, he was harshly cut off — that being said, Dean  _ has _ heard him mutter something about revenge more than a few times over the years). At some point, they became separated, and whoever Mary was by the ears with was dangerous enough to start a terrible fire in the building in which they were situated. Since John was a ways away when the first explosion lit the night, it was all above his bend and he was left to watch as the wooden structure crumbled and burned to embers and dust. He did search through the rubble with all-fired desperation for  _ any _ sign of a body, but there was nothing save for ash left behind.

The succeeding years were… rough, to put it nicely. The entire cabin reeked of booze, and little Dean ended up becoming Sammy’s full-time caretaker. Uncle Bobby would help as much as he could, but he was the big auger of a busy ranch, and most of his interaction with John was to argufy about his role as a father. Dean also took care of his father like the dutiful son he is, following all of his orders and biting his tongue to avoid asking questions.

All of that…  _ all of that _ , and there Dean was, ready to let it happen all over again…  _ without _ his support. Would they have found his charred body, pitiful and curled in on itself weeks— _ months _ —later? How long would it even take before they realized something is amiss, that Dean should have returned by then? How would Sammy take it? What about Bobby?  _ John? _ Would they have had to relive his mother’s death without Dean’s helping hand? Dean’s stomach recoils again, and suddenly his physical pain doesn’t feel as bad anymore.

Really, Dean is in this stranger’s debt, but something about his hidden identity makes Dean’s skin crawl.  _ What is he hiding? _

_ Why was he saved? _

“What do you want from me?” Dean voices, weaker than he intends. He clears his throat. There must be  _ something _ .

The man blinks up at him, tilting his head like a bird. He hums in question, barely prying his attention from the now-sizzling nopales.

Frustrated, Dean’s frown deepens as he elaborates. “I—  _ Why me? _ I mean, I have some eagles on me, or would you rather like a deal on some beef? I’m nothin’ special, so…  _ why? _ ”

The stranger’s pout is evident on his lips, which is the one thing Dean can make out from his face around the mask. He pokes at the nopales a bit more.

“You were going to die,” he finally states. The confusion is evident in his tone.

“ _ So? _ So could you.”

The man drops the stick he was using as a stirrer, looking up at Dean with finality. Something must have clicked in that slow head of his, because now Dean is squirming under the intensity of his gaze.

“You don’t believe that good things can happen to you,” he says. “You should, because good things do happen.”

Dean wants to say that they don’t, not to  _ him _ , how he can’t bring his hopes up, but he bites down the words scrambling up his throat, turning his head to the side to stare at the ground. When he lets himself face his company, he sees that the stranger is crouched near him again, hand out and offering a prickly pear. Dean offers back a small smile before accepting the gift, warm from the fire but smooth without its spines. With its skin peeled away, its flesh is red and sweet and juicy. He spits out the willow bark onto the ground before sinking his teeth into the fruit.

“Are you with the Indians or somethin’?” Juice runs down his chin. The willow bark has definitely kicked in at this point. The stranger is already back in his spot, setting the frying pan on the cooler ground before rummaging through his stuff for a plate. “All this livin’ off the land shit, eating cactus and all that… hell, if I knew about these woodchips before- are they some Indian—?”

“Native.”

Dean blinks. “Huh?”  _ Since when does the stranger interrupt? _

“Native,” he clarifies, shoveling half of the nopales onto the plate he retrieved. “India is a place, but it is not here.”

Squinting, Dean frowns. “It’s just somethin’ we call ‘em.”

“Yes, but it is not their name — it’s nothing more than a mistake you repeat over and over again.”

Dean pauses, honestly endeavoring to let the point sink in. The way he puts it makes it sound so simple, yet there’s an undercurrent to his words that only hint at the severity of the issue. It’s not something Dean comprehends at full capacity, but there’s something about this stranger’s inexplicable seniority that coerces Dean to really listen to his wisdom.

“Are you…” he starts, slowly. “I take it you’re not… you’re not  _ Native _ , then.”

The man shakes his head, leaning forward to push the plate of greasy nopales towards Dean. He brings them closer to himself, wiping fruit juice off his hands onto his pants.

“Then… what are you?”

He bites at his lip, and Dean can’t help but stare —  _ what else is he to do, with no other clues to his disposition? _ He prods at the nopales left in the frying pan, cooling them, before answering: “I’m nothing more than a wanderer.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “A wanderer? Do you have a story?”

The man takes a bite out of his own share of bait, ignoring Dean like he’s not even there.  _ A simple no would have done _ , Dean thinks.

Though he’s not exactly satisfied with the answer he received, Dean lets the moment pass as he picks at his nopales, which are admittedly filling with their coating of grease. He lets his attention drift to the campfire, determined to set aside any visions of earlier and instead concentrate on how it warms his feet.

Wiggling his toes to see that they are still functional bundled in their bandaged, Dean absently begins to wonder how the rest of his trip to Santa Fe will fare with his injuries: he hasn’t tried to stand up yet, and while he still has a few days of commute to recover, mounting and dismounting Impala will be a nightmare with his ankle in this condition.

His chest feels like it’s collapsing in on itself.  _ Oh god _ . He curls into himself, only realizing that he’s gulping in too much air when his head spins.

_ Impala _ .

She  _ has _ to be alright, doesn’t she? Even though he can see his hands shaking, Dean shoves his plate aside and stands up, immediately wincing against the wall of rock behind him when his ankle insists that it is out of commission.

Eyes scanning what he can see past their lit camp in desperate futility, the only horse he finds is the stranger’s dominant white Arabian (which is Dean’s best guess—it being generally larger than the typical Arabian—and considering the fact he grew up breeding horses, the detail only adds to the stranger’s mystique), half-hidden like a ghost among the cacti. When his eyes land on the stranger, he’s almost startled to see how calmly the man observes Dean’s panic, confusion barely evident with the twist of his mouth.

“Baby— She…” Dean blurts out, gesturing wildly. “ _ My _ —“ He’s cut off when he leans on his ankle again, the shooting pain reverberating across every nerve ending. His eyes are squeezed shut and he grits his teeth, focusing on his breath to pray the ache away.

“My horse,” he manages at last. He hopes the man can’t hear the quiver in his voice, or at least attribute it to his ankle. “She’s… Have you seen her?” Dean feels pathetically helpless. He gulps, not daring to open his eyes just if to stave off the disappointment for a little longer.

“The black Appaloosa?” he murmurs thoughtfully. “She’s very beautiful.”

Dean feels a rush of appreciation on Impala’s behalf— _ beauty recognizes beauty _ , he supposes—but he shakes his head, reminding himself of the severity of the situation. When he opens his eyes, he sees the man watching him like he’s solving an equation.

“That’s her,” Dean says with faux confidence, offering a weak grin. “Inky black, prettiest speckle in the West.” His heart flutters under each shaky breath.

The man hums. Dean’s head spins, but he doesn’t say anything else, knowing that he can’t do anything until the other replies. Maybe he’s thinking, maybe he’s just really fucking irritating, but he shovels the last few nopales into his mouth, standing up to brush himself off and put away his dishes. The only thing stopping Dean from digging his nails into his palm are his riding gloves and bandages.

“I have seen your horse,” he finally admits, but Dean’s chest only tightens. As if sensing his reaction, the man turns his head over his shoulder to face Dean, adding: “Though it was a while ago now, I have a feeling I know where she is.”

All of the air leaves Dean’s lungs in a relieved whoosh, and he almost collapses to the ground when he shoulders all of his weight against the rock.  _ “Oh, thank fuck _ ,” he mutters for good measure, unable to quell the overjoyed smile that cracks across his face. He rubs his jaw, feeling at the fuzzy prickle of stubble under his fingers as he stares at the man in disbelief.

“From what I could tell, she still has all of your saddlebags,” the man continues, and Dean has never felt more elated in his life. It must show on his face, because when the man approaches him to grab his plate, there’s an amused twinkle in his—what Dean now notices are—breathtakingly blue eyes. He nods at Dean’s boots. “Were you wanting to find her soon?”

Eyebrows reaching for his hairline, Dean nods so quickly that his head starts to hurt again. “As soon as possible.”

The man nods in satisfaction, leaving Dean to go pack away the rest of his belongings and put out the campfire.

Despite the fact that the despair didn’t have enough time to truly settle, Dean clings to the anticipation and hope of being reunited with his Baby to distract him from everything else that has happened within the past few hours. He slides carefully down the wall with his good hand, supporting all of his weight on his good leg until he’s flat on his ass again. The stranger is still bustling around, removing the saddle from his Arabian. His coat billows around his legs with the lightest desert breeze, and his boots make no sound against the dirt. Dean has to shake himself when he realizes he’s been staring.

The boot on his bad ankle takes forever to tug on, with him wincing through the pain as he forces his foot in deeper before stopping to let the pain subside in waves, and his riding glove feels awkward around his bulky, make-do bandage, but by the time he’s finally ready to go, the man is already waiting for him. Dean sees the offering hand in front of his face, kind and patient, but stupidly shakes his head and pushes it away. The man watches as Dean presses up against the rock wall, shimmying back until he can use one leg to piston his body upwards. He manages to stand up successfully, but the moment he tries to set his sprained ankle down, his balance buckles. It’s only when he feels the strong grip on his good wrist that Dean realizes he’s still standing up, tethered and steadied by his savior.

Dean’s moment of recovery appears embarrassingly long. Sure, he can account the willow bark for the quick dispersal of pain, but he’s so thoroughly exhausted that he finds himself sitting there—supported with one leg and tethered to the stranger’s grip—gaping up to his strange company. This blue-eyed, blue-masked belvidere has somehow deemed  _ Dean’s _ life worth risking his own. Dean’s filled with wonder, and he hesitates to move as his gaze grazes the shape of the man’s jaw that is highlighted by the moonlight, flooded with something akin to the warm and languid sensation that buzzes in your gut after a few glasses of expensive whiskey. When he squeezes his fingers, it’s only then that he notes how tightly his own gloved hand clings to the stranger’s wrist.

Pulling himself up, Dean grins and releases the stranger suddenly, balancing on his one foot. “I’ll need’ta walk on my own when it’s just me and my girl,” he explains. “I’ve had worse.” Though, as soon as the words are out of his mouth, he’s not completely sure of their validity.

Air hisses through Dean’s teeth with every step, but he braces himself and forces himself to get used to the sensation. The stranger follows him, arms out, there if Dean collapses but watching silently as Dean makes his way to the Arabian. By the time he makes it to the horse, he’s leaning a good portion of his weight onto its rump.

“Bareback?” Dean asks, running his fingers down the coarse hair on the Arabian’s back. He almost forgets that he spoke out loud, too preoccupied with figuring out how he’s supposed to mount with his bad ankle.

“My saddle won’t fit two people.” The gravelly voice is closer to his ear than he thought it would be, and while he doesn’t jump, he feels a chill run up his neck. Though he has no idea why, he’s almost scared to turn. Dean only furrows his brow and titles his head when the words process.

“ _ Two _ people? Your horse may be strong, but we’re not small people.” When he looks around to tease him, he’s startled to see how close his companion is, and any additional words are caught in his chest. He’s peering at Dean like he’s searching his soul, close enough that the brim of his hat almost brushes the other’s hood. Dean’s about to ask him if he’s heard of personal space when he gets an answer.

“It’ll be fine,” he assures Dean. “He’ll be fine with it.”

Dean narrows his eyes skeptically. “I don’t think you know what you’re doing.” The mask covers up too much of his face, and now that they only have the moonlight to guide them, Dean can’t make out anything of the man’s expression.

“Walking would be slower. Do you need help mounting?”

Shaking his head, Dean absently waves him away. If he thinks his horse can do it, then Dean is too tired to argue. The Arabian is tall, and without stirrups and a sprained ankle to boot, mounting bareback is difficult, but Dean  _ did _ grow up around horses. He does have to wiggle when he swings his bad leg over, clinging onto the horse’s neck as he slides into position, but he’ll be damned if he asks for help. Shifting forward, he readjusts his coat.

“Move back,” the man speaks up, and Dean squints down at him.

“Ain’t I heavier?”

“I think it will be easier on your wrist if I took the reins.”

Huffing, Dean complies. He watches in amazement as the man swiftly swings his leg over and pulls himself up onto the Arabian in front of Dean. It takes a few moments for Dean to realize just how impressive the feat is, considering the Arabian’s height and how Dean is already in the way; it’s almost like the wind had picked him up and plopped him back down on the horse’s back. Dean’s so lost in thought that he’s jolted when the man whistles him to a trot, and his thighs grip the animal’s sides tighter than he means to.

“You might want to hold on,” is all the warning he gets before the horse speeds up drastically. Dean has his mouth open, ready to protest, but with the horse moving at a speed far quicker than it should be with two grown men on its back, he slides into the stranger’s back and his hands automatically grip onto the coat at his waist.

Dean wouldn’t be surprised if this is all just a side-effect of the willow bark or maybe even the nopales, with how slightly off everything feels. The horse’s ghostly white coat glows in the moonlight; everything else around them is dark. It’s clear enough that the moon can shine brightly enough to cast shadows, but Dean is still impressed with this stranger’s night vision. The speed of the Arabian has Dean at sea considering the sturdiness of the man in front of him. They fly over the desert at a decent pace, the cool wind rushing past his ears threatening to lift his Stetson right from his head.

“A daisy of a hoss you got,” Dean murmurs after a while, still in awe at the Arabian’s abilities. “I’ve never seen one so strong.” He expects his words to incite some sort of conversation, but all he gets is a barely-audible hum, so Dean frowns and tightens his grip.

It’s only then that he registers where his hands currently are, and his heart leaps into his throat; his position feels too intimate, too close to a masculine stranger. He’s lucky the man hasn’t thought to comment on it (plus he  _ is _ the one who asked Dean to hold on). Dean wants to let go—it feels too much like choking the horn, and Dean chooses to think that’s all that it is—but reasons that it would be much too awkward and his bad wrist is more comfortable like this, so he forces himself to relax.

Gulping, he continues: “You… um… You left your saddlebags back at the camp. Why?”

The man glances over his shoulder at Dean. “Too bulky. And I left the saddle behind.”

“Ain’t you worried about bandits? Creatures?”

A shrug. “If they’re not there when I return, then I can find new belongings.”

Dean laughs softly to himself, barely noticing how each puff of air tickles the back of the stranger’s neck. “You’re a strange one, you are.”

The rest of the trip doesn’t take too long, especially considering the rate in which they’re cutting dirt. A strange sense of peace settles over Dean: the desert is mostly quiet aside from the rhythmic beat of hooves against the sandy soil, and the expanse of galaxies above their heads relaxes him with a sense of familiarity. He’s glad to find that his own rump isn’t too bruised for riding, and though his ankle aches with every pace, he gets used to it after a while. Dean Winchester is no stranger to pain.

A rushing of running water piques Dean’s attention, snapping him from the trance he’d been lulled into. His eyes have adjusted to the dimness of the night, but it takes him a few seconds to register that they’ve reached…  _ they’re at the Cimarron River again _ . Yet another weight is lifted from Dean’s shoulders.  _ He finally knows where he is. _

His savior remains silent, but he’s directing his horse to the brush by the bank, and Dean can almost hear how hard he’s thinking. Vaguely, he remembers the lack of security in the man’s response about Impala’s whereabouts, but all skepticism is washed away when he spots a figure knee-deep in the current.

“ _ Oh my god, _ ” is the first thing that falls from his mouth, closely followed by a choked-out laugh. His hands scrabble against the stranger’s back, desperately trying to figure out the quickest method to dismount. “That’s her, that’s my Baby!”

In the river, Impala’s ears twitch in their direction before she finally lifts her head. The Arabian is barely halted when Dean basically throws himself off the animal, landing on his good leg and limp-skipping the rest of the distance. He’s slowed by the current, but he’s so elated with the sight of his best friend and companion that he’s content with drinking in everything about her, including the fact that she still has all of his belongings attached to her saddle.

“Hey girl,” he coos, pulling off his riding glove from his good hand with his teeth and holding it with his other so he can pet her muzzle. She leans into his touch and he giggles. “ _ Fuck _ , Baby, I missed you… I thought I lost you, holy shit.” He spends some time simply leaning his forehead against hers and apologizing for airing his lungs in front of a lady. When she nuzzles his hair case so that it falls to his shoulders, he just laughs.

Limping around her, he double-checks all of his bags, running his hand through her hair to check for burns. There’s only a bit of ash on her stifle where her coloring speckles smoothly to a white with paintbrush-like spots, so he splashes water up to wash her off. The water is cool where it seeps into his boots and armas (which he’ll have to leave out to dry before he leaves), and it soothes his burns.

Dean almost forgets about his mysterious savior, but when he glances to the bank, there’s no one there. Frowning, he pets Impala’s neck, staring at where he allegedly dismounted the ghostly Arabian; Dean would consider it all a figment of his imagination if not for the bandages wrapped around his injuries. Something sinks inside of his chest…  _ because he didn’t get a name? Missed his chance to thank the stranger? _ He probably owes his entire life to the man at this point.

“ _ Damn _ ,” he mutters to himself, refocusing on his Baby. The thought occurs to him that maybe he disappeared into thin air because he stole something from Dean, but when he checks his pockets, all he finds is his father’s note and a handful of woodchips.  _ Willow bark _ . Grinning to the speckled sky, he laughs at the irony, sending out a silent thanks to the angel because that’s all he can do.

Good things don’t happen to Dean Winchester. They don’t happen because he believes he’s already happy, and any change to that familiarity only makes things worse. The glass is already full, and change can only empty its contents.

This is not entirely correct, as the stranger has truth to his words: good things don’t happen to Dean Winchester  _ because he doesn’t believe they can. _

The good and the bad are subjective. Sometimes what is good is bad to another, or sometimes a good thing is disguised as bad. Sometimes you must persist through trial and error, fight your right to stand, to seek your happy ending.

The glass is already full, but the fire fissured a web into its foundation. One can choose to fill in the cracks, hold the shards together, but past a certain point, everything will shatter.

Dean Winchester did not believe, but being pulled from the fire—his rebirth from the ash—chipped the first rift into his life.

He may not believe, but it’s impossible to stop the change when something else does.


	4. Santa Fe

Finally reunited with Impala, Dean takes the opportunity to give himself a late morning: they both settle down for the night after cleaning out wounds and washing away the remaining soot from their hair, sleeping in the bushes until well after sunrise.

The rest of the trip is (thankfully) uneventful. Once he finds his way back onto the trail with the help of his compass, he passes some travelers and uses the opportunity to realign himself and attempt to assess the overall damage of the prairie fire. Mounting and dismounting is a pain in the ass, but with the rest of the willow bark properly rationed, the discomfort gradually becomes bearable. By the time he reaches Santa Fe, he can mostly conceal his limp.

They ride into Santa Fe early in the day. Since Dean is keen on following his father’s orders (especially considering the setback of the prairie fire), he leaves Impala at the livery stable adjacent to the Exchange Hotel, where he’s found a cheap bed just for the day so they can retire back as soon as possible. The sheets are clean, and the bed is soft compared to his hen skins, so Dean’s out like a light as soon as his eyes are closed.

When they open again, one guess at the sun’s position outside the window tells him that it’s probably still mid-afternoon. (Damn… there goes the free lunch). It’s the best sleep Dean’s gotten all week, and it’ll be another week until he gets back to the ranch, so he takes a few minutes to luxuriate. He rolls over and consequently groans, already forgetting about his still-tender ribs. Remembering that he’s all out of willow bark is enough to convince him out of bed.

After redressing, Dean washes his face, feeling the stubble that stubbornly grows from a week of inattention. He sighs, resigning himself to visit the Bathhouse-and-Barbershop he spotted while searching for the hotel — perhaps he’ll even treat himself to a hot bath, since Bobby’ll have a cattle run soon, which will easily cover the expenditure in the long run.

The peak of the early summer day has already passed, but it’s still scorching hot outside in the plaza, and Dean suddenly can’t wait to get out of his sticky clothing. Thankfully, the barbershop is cooler inside, but still somewhat busy — which is one aspect of Santa Fe Dean never quite gets used to.

“How much for a shave and a hot bath?” he asks one of the assistant boys milling around the shop. The boy pauses for a moment to acknowledge him, looking him up and down.

“A dollar, mister.”

Dean makes a face. “A dollar?”

“Yessir. A dollar includes soap and towel.”

He huffs, but then winks at the boy all the same, digging into his pocket for the dollar. “You pack a hard bargain, kid.”

“Thank you, mister. Mr. Perkins will find you shortly, and I’ll go heat up your water.” And with that, the kid scurries off like a mouse.

Perkins is more than happy to prattle on about the latest hanging to a new face like Dean, but he gets the job done and Dean feels fresher than ever once he’s clean of shaving cream. The bath the assistant boy prepared is near perfect, and Dean can feel his muscles loosen the moment he slides into the water basin.

Now that he’s fully nude, Dean idly checks for the damage he’s taken as he washes away the remaining smoke and grim from his skin with soap. The worst of his bruises are mostly yellow now, with the exception of his ankle, which is still very purple despite the fact that he can walk on it with relative ease. His wrist aches if he moves it too much, but anything else is easy enough to ignore. Sighing, Dean sinks down so he can soak his hair, massaging suds onto his scalp.

When his half-hour nears to an end, Dean climbs out of the basin to dry, fully refreshed after finally getting his hands on some soap. He’s only minutely aware of the other patron in the bath-room, conversing with the assistant boy as Dean dresses himself.

“—and if you don’t, the White Bandit is sure to get’cha.”

Dean freezes with his pants half-up his legs. He has to remind himself to not be so obvious with his eavesdropping, so he forces himself to continue dressing himself as he strains his ears.

The boy laughs gleefully. “Then I’ll just beef the sucker! I got the best shot between the boys.”

“Don’t be too sure of that, kiddo,” the patron shakes his head, clicking his tongue. “Never heard of the White Bandit,  _ Angel of the Desert? _ Not even the best men come out alive.”

Dean’s heard of the legend, of course, he’s just… forgotten about it. He doesn’t remember as much as he’d like to, but something about the myth irks him, tugging at the back of his mind like he’s missing something important.

“Of course I’ve heard! Richie says it’s just a story Ma uses to make sure I’m back before sundown.”

“Yes, well, didja know Mr. Francis saw him once?”

“Really?!”

“On the bible, he said. Saw ‘im on a white hoss in the distance, only reason he survived. Spooked for life.”

Dean chews on his lip, rolling their words around in his head.  _ It can’t be. _ He stares down at the damp towel in his hand, barely registering that he’s fully clothed. Blinking, he realizes that he’s stalling and throws the towel to a bench on the side, reaching for some pennies in his pockets to toss to the bath boy.

“Thanks for the bath, kid,” he says as the boy scrabbles to catch his tip. The other patron glances up—fully nude, obviously, but Dean is careful to place his eyes—so Dean tips his hat towards him. Turning back to the kid, he winks, playing along and saying: “And he’s right: they say you would be lucky to meet a hungry coyote over that longrider any day.”

“And why’s that, mister?”

Dean is about to spout some nonsense, avoiding the fact that he’s not actually sure, when the other patron answers for him: “’Cause at least a hungry coyote can be killed.”

The boy gasps before laughing, berating the two of them for pulling his leg. The man grins lazily, sliding slightly deeper into his bath, but Dean is frozen to the spot, barely concealing the effect this new piece of information is currently having on him.

Forcing out a polite smile, he nods himself out of the bath-room and out of the barbershop. Everything about Santa Fe is just slightly more bearable now that he’s shaved and washed, but his head is spinning so quickly that he can’t bring himself to care.

Of course, it’s entirely possible the man was over-exaggerating for the kid’s sake. Hell, it’s been a while since Dean’s heard the legend in its entirety himself, only having used it to threaten Sammy when he still had to look up instead of down to Dean. Still, something about those words ring familiar, and only unsettle him through the fact that he isn’t bothered by the content of the news.

Then again, the only reason he’s spending so much brain power on the issue is because he’s associating this legend, this mother’s tale, with his savior.

_ Damn it all… _ he can’t be  _ that _ unrealistic, can he?

The rock Dean kicks skitters between the planks of the boardwalk. When he looks up, he finds himself having conveniently wandered in front of a grocery store. A bell tinkles as he pushes his way inside.

There’s plenty of strange people around the desert; Dean’s met his fair share of ‘em. Plus, his savior only said he was a wanderer…  _ that doesn’t exactly fit the role of “bandit”, does it? _

Then again, why would a wanderer need a mask? And what are bandits, if not desperate wanderers?

Dean frowns at the ripe peach in his hand. There’s no way that man is a bandit: he would have no reason to save Dean, and bandits aren’t usually known for their hearts of gold.

He kind of regrets not pressing further for the stranger’s identity.

Sighing, he turns the peach around, shining it with his thumb. They’re expensive, but a little treat never hurts. He adds two to his growing stock of rations for the trip back home.

Drifting around the counters in search of bacon and matches, Dean does his best to recall what he knows about the White Bandit… which is not much. He thought the “White” in his name had something to do with his attire (which, in the case of his savior… no, he’s  _ got _ to stop dwelling on his image), but perhaps it only refers to his horse (like that dominant white Arabian). And as for “Bandit” …

It’s only then that Dean realizes the biggest giveaway should probably be the fact that he’s not dead.

Indeed, the man saved Dean. He lifted Dean from fire and ash and mended him, helping him back onto his feet again.

There is absolutely no way that man is the Angel of the Desert.

With his groceries stowed away in the pockets of his duster—which is now hung in the crook of his elbow due to the heat—Dean starts his search for willow bark.

Now that Dean has the energy to think about it, he has no idea how the man actually saved him: not only was he surrounded by an uncontrolled fire, but he was also unconscious. A dead weight. How the man lifted Dean from his grave and carried him away in  _ addition _ to dodging flames is a mystery Dean will probably never figure out.

Though, recalling the facility in which the stranger’s horse carried both him and Dean at such a pace for such a distance gives the thought some credibility. Sure, Dean barely believes it himself, but he observed it happening.

Almost makes immortality sound more believable.

Dean scoffs to himself. There’s no way the White Bandit is immortal — “unable to die” is usually code for terrifyingly undefeatable. All talk like that is merely illusion, and this stranger is simply saturated with them.

He finds the willow bark being sold by a Native woman in the plaza. Relieved, he buys a rather hefty purse of the good.

Not only did the stranger have the patience to pull him from hell, but he also took the time to tend to Dean. While the food and the willow bark and the ride to Impala were all undeniably appreciated, Dean can’t stop thinking about the bandages.

Did he watch Dean being thrown from his horse? Is that how he knew about the extent of Dean’s injuries? Dean tries to imagine being stripped at least of his shirt by this stranger, since he’d found bandages wrapped around his chest (luckily, his ribs were not broken — just badly bruised). Were his big hands rough against him, tugging his boots off without care, or were they gentle against his skin, cleaning and bandaging his wounds? Dean catches himself picturing crystal blue eyes narrowed in concentration and campfire light dancing across a dark five-o-clock shadow.

No, he can’t think like that: he has to keep some sort of dignity about himself. Dean rubs a hand against his mouth, feeling his own freshly-shaven face as he makes his way into a small bookshop. He has a mission to carry out, and dwelling on moments of the past won’t do anything to help him.

“Afternoon. Got any of them fact books?”

A scrawny-looking fellow in a tweed vest looks up from his work at the counter when Dean speaks. “With the nonfiction, sir.”

Nodding his thanks, Dean makes his way over to a discrete corner behind some taller shelves, taking notice of the “Nonfiction” sign written in neat print. Sammy’s always liked the more academic stuff, and Dean enjoys learning about whatever the latest book has to say during meals or on long cattle drives. Taking advantage of a means to distract his attention, Dean begins browsing for subjects in which his brother isn’t so familiar.

It’s only when he’s opened to a random page in a book about astronomy (something about solar flares?) that he hears hushed voices from an aisle over: “Did you hear that the White Bandit was just seen outside of town?”

Dean freezes, straining to listen as his hand rests on the inked paper.

A gasp. “No, really?” Two ladies… news must have really come around if a couple of maidens were gossiping about it. “You’re not kidding?”

“Cross my heart. Frankie said he heard one of those chuck-line riders talking about it in the saloon.”

Dean shuts the book, pulling himself away from eavesdropping yet another conversation. He picks it up almost absentmindedly, deciding that Sammy will be satisfied with the material as he makes his way back to the counter.

“Will that be all for you, sir?” tweed vest drones. His eyes flicker to the book Dean sets down onto the counter before tapping away at a cash register.

Dean hesitates. “Any chance you got anything on local legends?”

“We’ve got a relatively extensive fiction section, sir.”

It was worth a shot. He adds a chunky myth book to his purchases anyhow.

Walking out with two books under his arms, Dean’s mind is buzzing with energy. Sure, the myth tome might have been an impulsive purchase, but at this point he’s almost a little too eager for information. While it’ll probably be more of an interesting read than actually useful, the best tips will come from town gossip.

Sighing, he checks his pocket watch.  _ Almost six. _ Sunset isn’t for another couple of hours, but it’s probably a good idea to stop beating the devil around the stump and pick up what he was actually sent for. He rummages around his pocket for his father’s folded note.

_ Near the plaza, they are building St. Frances where La Parroquia stood before our time down San Francisco Street. _

St. Francis had already been under construction for a few years now, but it’s more than visible from where Dean lingers beside the plaza, the future cathedral standing tall above the short buildings and at the end of the road.

_ Proceed until you pass a locked door with a beggar out front. _

Dean saunters slowly enough so that he can take in the profile of everyone on the street. He passes the hotel he’s staying at, and the alley that leads to the livery where Impala’s resting. There are people like him, bustling up and down the dirt road, focused on reaching their destination. There are kids running in circles, shrieking with laughter, and there’s a stray dog sniffing the ground for any semblance of nutrients.

He sees an old, dark-skinned man hunched over on the step of a door. His hair is white and his eyes are fogged over, and he holds his hands out pleadingly. When Dean approaches him, he notices how the door behind the barber’s cat of a man is heavily padlocked.  _ 412 _ is carved into a plaque beside the door frame.

Feeling awkward, Dean stands there, shifting his weight from foot to foot.  _ Surely, the man can sense he’s there… or can he? _ Something feels wrong about taking advantage of the old coot. Frowning, Dean digs around his pocket, sifting through his groceries.

Crouching by the beggar, he brings out one of his peaches. A part of him wants to resist, knowing how tempting it would be to keep the treat all to himself—even thinking about how much he had to pay for it makes him hesitate—but he steels himself and sets it in the palm of the beggar’s hand. Stepping back and standing up again, the only reaction he gets in return is bony fingers curling around the fruit.

_ Tell him my name and he will lead you to the owner of the box. _

“I’m, um.” Dean clears his throat. “John Winchester sent me.”

No response.

Two emotions flare up inside of Dean: a combination of frustration and rage at this incompetent old coot, and desperation in jumping to the conclusion of having to go back to his old man empty-handed.

Confusion is added to that concoction when the beggar gets to his feet and stumbles away, only fueling his rage.  _ Okay, maybe it’s been a bit of a long day, _ because after a few breaths it strikes Dean that he’s probably meant to  _ follow _ .  _ Right _ .

The beggar makes his way around a corner around the block at a pace that has Dean dragging his feet. When he finally turns down an airish alley and stops in front of an open door, Dean sighs with relief. He nods at the man (forgetting that he probably can’t see the gesture) and hears what he thinks is gratitude for the gift before the beggar is bumbling away.

Carefully, Dean nudges the door open even further and slips inside. It’s a rather small area, cut smaller by the false wall between it and what is presumably the main living area. The smell of cooking permeates the walls despite the scarcity of personal touches.

“Anybody home?” he calls out. Something about the place feels oddly familiar, which is why he finds his free hand casually removing his hair case.

“Don’t be shy, dear: come on in.”

Dean’s brow furrows at the warm voice, so he skulks further into the room and past the fast wall. Seeing the woman on the couch at last, his posture eases and his face falls into an easy grin.

“Missouri!” he greets, placing his books and hat on the coffee table before opening his arms for the inevitable hug.

“Dean Winchester.” Her beam is huge and the amount of force she uses to pull Dean into an embrace is impressive. Nonetheless, he relents, melting into her arms and squeezing back tightly. The relief and appreciation he has for seeing a face like hers is immense.

“It’s been too long.”

Stepping back, Dean takes a moment to truly look at Missouri. It’s been a while since he’s last seen her, considering she’s a family friend, but she’s aged well and looks as spry as ever. She’s staring back at him with a rather odd expression on her face.

_ Ah… she’s still holding his hands. _

“ _ My, my _ , son… You’ve had quite the adventurous trip, haven’t you? How’s that ankle doin’?”

Missouri is psychic. Dean didn’t believe it at first, of course, but she’s done more than enough to prove herself. Still, the knowledge she gains at a simple touch is something that Dean never quite gets used to.

“Better, thank you,” he says, politely.

“And that’s quite the handsome fellow you met there-  _ ah, ah _ : I never said I knew anything about him. If you wanna go chasin’ after him, you’ll have to ask somewhere else.” Dean opens his mouth to protest, but she waves it away, gesturing for him to sit as she takes her place back on the couch.

“So…” he starts, leaning back into his chair with his coat draped over the back, “what brings you to Santa Fe?”

“I was just passing by. I just so  _ happened _ to find what your father was lookin’ for, so I said I’d hold down the fort until he could pick it up.”

“ _ Looking _ for?” Dean frowns. “What was he looking for?”

Missouri stares at him for a while, prying so deeply into his gaze like she is trying to look into his damn soul. After a few seconds, she purses her lips and pulls out a wooden box from underneath the coffee table, setting it on its surface.

“This,” she replies, tapping the top of it with two bandaged fingers.

The box is no wider than a hand, only a few inches tall, and painted black. What Dean can’t stop gawking at is the multitude of satanic-like symbols painted and carved alike into the wood, covering every surface on the package. It almost feels like they’re staring back at him.

_ Why in Sam Hill does his father want this creepy curse crap? _

Dean’s reaching out for it when his hand is slapped away and subjected to a sharp glare.

“Anything more than that is none of yo’ damn business, boy,” Missouri chides. Dean presses his lips together, but a psychic is a psychic. “And don’t you think of peepin’ when you’re outta my sight, if you know what’s good for you.”

“Yes ma’am,” he sighs. His father will probably find out if he snoops anyhow, and he’d rather not deal with the consequences.

“So,” she continues, pushing the box to the side. Dean’s guilty gaze follows it. “How are things?”

“Can’t you see all the shoot?”

Missouri rolls her eyes. “ _ Don’t you be smart with me, Winchester! _ Enlighten me.”

Dean chuckles, scratching his head while he thinks. “Sammy’s doin’ mighty fine, and Dad’s been workin’ on a big order for Reno county. Oh, and I think Bobby’s gonna set us out on a cattle run soon.”

“I imagine you’ll be leaving town soon, then?”

“Dad said as soon as possible, but another night in a proper bed sounds like the best idea I’ve had in a while.”

“Don’t.”

Missouri spoke with such harshness that Dean’s words die in his mouth as he tries to continue. He blinks. “… What?”

“Don’t,” she reiterates, staring him dead in the eye. “You should grab your horse before finishing that laundry list of yours.”

“Aw,  _ come _ on!  _ Why should I?” _

“Dean Winchester,  _ you should grab your horse before finishing that laundry list of yours.” _

Her voice is unwaveringly serious, her sharp gaze shutting down any witty retort Dean is ready to throw out to ignore the impending heaviness in the air. He gulps. Missouri specializes with touch, but she’s just as adept at reading energies.

“I’ll need to repack the saddlebags, anyhow,” he finally says, plastering on a grin and positively ignoring the nerves that sparked at her intensity.

She beams. “That’s what I like to hear! Now… how does coffee sound?”

* * *

No matter how early it is, the saloon always seems to be a back staircase of a place. Dean’s lucky to have snagged a small table in a quiet corner, hidden by a billiards table, and is confronted with a hearty meal of sausages, eggs, and greens.

_ Hey _ , he said he was going to treat himself. It’s not often he has access to a nice German-owned saloon like this.

Perhaps the cheaper hovels host the rowdier bunch Dean’s used to—which could also provide a more wide-spread source of gossip-based information—but Dean’s been waiting for a meal like this for about a week now, and how could he resist when it’s basically attached to the hotel? That, and the beer is actually kind of good.

There’s a decent murmur of conversation going around, but nothing passes his ears that’s particularly interesting. Dean washes down a mouthful of food with more beer before absently checking the pockets of his duster. He  _ did _ go and pack his saddlebags after catching up with Missouri, but he left the weird Satan box in his most spacious pocket for safekeeping.

Honestly, the company isn’t terrible. The floors and tables are clean and, hell, there’s a billiards table and a piano in another corner, but that doesn’t stop the gambling folk from crowding around the more shaded tables in the establishment. There’s plenty of talk for Dean to eavesdrop —  _ if only they’d talk about something interesting. _

Two cowboys saunter up to the billiards table. They take no notice of Dean, who idly pretends to watch another crowd laughing by the bar. One sets out to seek a cue stick to his tastes, holding a cigar in the corner of his mouth, while the other racks the balls. Dean allows his attention to drift back to them and their game.

“It’s been a while,” one of them grumbles. The stick hits the cue ball, echoed by the sounds of the other balls scattering around the table. “Haven’t seen one of these damn things since Kansas.”

“Speakin’ of Kansas, didja hear about the fire on the way up?”

Dean flinches. He takes another bite of his sausage.

“Heard it was all that damn desert angel’s fault.”

Dean almost chokes on his beer. His interest is definitely piqued now.

“Poppycock! You can’t believe in all these fairytales.”

A shrug. “Pedro saw him riding out of the flames, probably with his last victim. Hell, I swear I’ve seen him myself before.”

“That bean eater’s just pullin’ your leg.”

“Dunno. Heard the Bandit’s just a hooded Klannie gone wild. They like burnin’ stuff, don’t they?”

It takes a lot of restraint for Dean to remain silent. He bites his lip, ignoring the boiling in his chest at their implications.

“More like some dumb bastard dropped their light. The Klan disbanded last year.”

“Yeah, well. They found some wanderers a little ways away, burnt to a crisp. Couldn’t recognize the bodies.”

“Fire catch ‘em in their sleep?”

“The way they were described? I doubt it.”

Dean drums his fingers on the table, staring at his empty beer glass. It’s true, he doubted the stranger’s possible title of “Bandit”,  _ but what if he really is the perpetrator of all this mess? _ Though, if he is, it would make even less sense for him to go out and save Dean.

He’s distracted from his thoughts when a saloon girl sidles up to his table. “Ain’t it lonely over here, sir?” she says.

Pausing, Dean looks her up and down. He’s surprised that she’s approached him when there are definitely other crowds around the saloon unaccompanied by saloon girls, and she’s a pretty one. Guiltily, his eyes flicker over to the cowboys at the billiards table, but their conversation has long since shifted, so he turns back to her.

“Not anymore,” he replies, flashing her his most winning grin. He digs in his pockets for some change before handing it to her. “Wanna grab me two fingers of firewater and anything you so please while I finish my bait?”

Her eyes twinkle as she winks as she swivels around to go seek out the bar dog. Dean sighs before resolving to finish up the rest of his meal. Her job is to entertain, but he can only imagine the amount of talk that passes by her ears.

He’s done his meal by the time she returns, sliding a glass towards him with her fingers lingering on the table. When he reaches for it and takes a sip, leaning back to fully relax in his chair, the saloon girl mirrors him, looking at him from underneath her eyelashes expectantly as she sips her cold tea.

“Am I allowed the privilege of knowing your name?” he finally says, placing the glass back on the table.

“I’m afraid there’s an additional price with every request,” she smiles apologetically. Dean stares at her for a moment before barking out a loud laugh, only just cognizant of the teasing nature in her expression. “Cassy, if you must,” she continues. “Was there anything in particular that was one your mind?”

Playing up his consideration, he frowns, staring just above her shoulder. “Cassy? Mm, Cassy… yes, there  _ was something _ on my mind…” His eyes flicker down to hers, noticing the lazy curiosity about them. “What’s a pretty thing like you doing in my lil’ corner?”

She has a tinkling laugh, and she tosses the hair she’s left loose over her shoulder. “Why, I couldn’t let such a mysterious belvidere brood all by himself, now, can I? What’s given you the blue devils? Can’t help but notice you look mighty troubled.”

Dean hums, nodding absently. “Yes, well, I was deep in a brown study, you see.”

“A penny for your thoughts,” she grins, leaning forward and resting her arms against the table.

“What have you heard of the White Bandit?”

Cassy blinks momentarily, stunned, before her sweet smile returns. “The White Bandit? A lot of stories pass through here, sir.”

He flashes another grin, this time slightly strained. “Enlighten me.”

“Hm, well.” She taps a finger on her rosy lips as her gaze drifts across Dean. He takes another drink. “There are many men who come by, each proclaiming that they’ve seen the Bandit himself, or escaped his grasp with a shred of their life, but their description of the legend changes every time.” Cassy purses her lips, pointing at Dean with her glass and a glint in her eye. “No one really knows the actual story behind him, but if I had to put my money on something, I’d say he’s a thief, snatching people away and eating their hearts.”

Dean grimaces. “Cannibalism? Why would he do that?”

She shrugs. “Eating, stealing, whatever makes it more dramatic. That’s just from the best I’ve heard… and there’s always the song…  _ how does it go…?” _ Cassy’s voice shifts in tone slightly, making way for a soft but rich melody as she grasps words from her memory. “ _ He rides atop a phantom horse,/ Flying faster in my stead./ My desp’rate hope the Bandit steals,/ White while I lay bathed in red.” _

“That  _ could _ fit the whole hearts thing,” Dean muses. “I don’t remember the words at all… does the song ever mention  _ why? _ ”

“Hm, I don’t think so. All I remember is some warning about not treading ‘ _ where the White Bandit tends to roam’ _ .”

“No reason at all, huh.”

“It doesn’t seem like it.”

Dean takes another drink. The alcohol burns down his throat. “Do you think he’s bad?” he asks her.

She hesitates. “None of his victims even live to tell the tale, of  _ course _ he’s—”

He shakes his head. “No… I was asking  _ you _ … if you think he’s bad.”

Cassy stops talking altogether. She peers at Dean, gaze flickering between each eye as if truly trying to assess his motives. Her fingers stroke the glass of cold tea in her hands as she thinks.

“I’ve only worked here a few years, you know. My family… well, we had nothing, but we were happy — before I was kidnapped, of course.” Her attention is behind Dean, stretching further away than the saloon wall provides, and her eyes are glazed as she forces out a smile to maintain her pretty look. Dean shifts uncomfortably at the sudden change in tone before consciously trying to remain as still as possible. He keeps a close watch on her expression, unsure of how to react to such a personal story yet intrigued all the same.

“The bandits who took me,” she continues, “I don’t know who they were, or what they wanted of me. Maybe they were going to sell me to slavery, maybe they were… I don’t know, but they kept me alive—blindfolded, bound, and gagged—and drove me south in a stagecoach. I wanted to cry the entire time, but I was so frozen with fear that I was drained of all my energy.

“Many hours into the ride—it was about nightfall at this point—there was a sudden commotion: all the men were shouting, the horses panicking… but I couldn’t see what was going on, because of my blindfold. Next thing I knew, I was alone in the coach (though, I believe there was also a slumped body against my side), and all I could hear was the echo of gunshots. By the time I managed to loosen my blindfold enough to see, my captors were silent.

“I managed to fall out of the coach onto the hard desert ground, and all around me were the bandits that had taken me, lying on the ground, both burnt to a crisp and lying in a pool of their own blood. I remember shaking, both from cold and confusion, until I looked up and saw… well, I saw  _ him _ . Standing there, in the middle of his destruction.”

It takes Dean a few seconds to realize he’s been holding his breath, finally beginning to understand. Having an idea of where her story is going, he feels a strange sense of solidarity between them. Unsure of what to do with the thought, he takes another drink of his whiskey.

Cassy still doesn’t seem to register him, but she smiles faintly as she continues. “I couldn’t believe my eyes. I knew the legend, of course—my Ma and Pa always told me his story—but to see him, standing there looking down at me with a glinting knife in his hand? I don’t think I could describe the raw terror and fascination I felt, except for the fact that I felt like I could finally cry.

“I wanted to beg, but there was little I could do with the cloth in my mouth, and my vision was blurring from my tears. Still, I could see his image start to approach me, his dagger out in front of him. There must have been some part of me that held hope in escape now that my captors were dead, but faced with that blade… I felt myself give up completely.

“He passed me, but I could feel him standing— _ crouching _ —behind me.” Cassy holds a quivering arm up in the air, gripping an invisible dagger. “I closed my eyes and prayed for my forgiveness, when I heard the blade pass through the air.” She brings her arm down quickly, slicing down an invisible target. “And next think I knew, I was still breathing, I could blink away my tears, and the ropes had fallen from my wrists.

“I was too weak to stand right away, but I hurried to tear the gag from my mouth and pull my blindfold off all the way. Before I could even murmur a thanks, he jumped on that ghostly horse of his and rode off into the night.”

_ Phantom horse, huh. _ Exactly like that dominant white Arabian.

Dean barely has the time to collect his thoughts before Cassy speaks again. “Luckily, he left the carriage horses alone, so I left the bandits where they were and found myself here. The girls took me in, and I’ve been here ever since.” She finally stops, taking a long sip from her cold tea and sighing deeply.

“So you  _ don’t _ think he’s bad,” Dean mumbles when he remembers he has a voice.

Cassy shakes her head, expression tired but nostalgic. “I’ll still place my money on him being a heart thief, but  _ I _ think he only takes from those who don’t have one anymore.”

Dean grins. “Didn’t sound like there was a lot of eating goin’ on then.” He revels in her laugh, glad that his only means of comfort seems effective.

“No, I don’t think there was. Still, it’s nice to believe.” She swirls her glass with one hand, gazing off into the distance again.

Dean bites his lip.  _ He has to confirm. _ “The… The Bandit. The White Bandit.” Cassy’s eyes shift back to him, idly waiting for his question. “What…  _ What did he look like?” _

“What did he look like?” she parrots. Her eyes crinkle and her lips curve upwards, seeing something that’s not there. “It feels like so long ago now, but I still remember him perfectly. He was wearing a hooded, woolen white poncho over his coat—I remember longing for a blanket like that, shivering in the night like that—and a white bandana covered his mouth and nose. Oh, and his mask… most people think it’s black, but if you were actually close enough to see, you’d know it’s—”

“Navy-blue,” Dean finishes on a breath. Cassy blinks at him, her pretty lips gaped, and Dean has a suspicion that her expression is reflected in his own.

“Yeah, that’s… yeah.” Cassy studies him for a few moments longer before she evidently pieces the information together. “So… you…?”

Dean nods, downing the rest of his drink to avoid answering. “I, uh… got caught. In the fires up in Kansas.” Her gaze flickers over every inch of him, and, while he’d usually be more than pleased, he can’t help but squirm. At last, she beams, a sense of understanding saturating her features.

“There’s not many who really meet with him face-to-face,” she says. “Really makes me wonder what his story is. I almost never believed it myself, but there I was, sitting at the feet of this legend that I’ve heard of all throughout my childhood, yet was met with the face of a young man.”

“He wasn’t that young,” Dean jokes, trying to avoid the impending paradox that he’d rather not ponder.  _ A man that can’t die… _

“Young enough,” Cassy titters. “Well, I’ll say we should drink to that.”

“To our stories,” Dean says, raising his glass before realizing it’s empty. He pouts at it, inspecting the bottom of the glass for any last drops. “Ah…”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” she waves him off, stealing his glass from his grasp. “I’ll grab you something small.” And she’s off to the bar before Dean can even reach for his coins.

It’s only after she’s gone that Dean comes to realize that while others have been saved too,  _ he’s _ the only one that was cared for. While he isn’t sure exactly how to process this information, he can’t help but feel a tinge of jealous triumph at the thought.

* * *

With Impala refreshed from her time at the livery, Dean has her at a walk down College Street, passing empty land where dwellings have yet to be built. Her hooves clop down the wooden bridge over the Santa Fe Creek. Dean watches the other people pass him by, on horses or burros, carrying goods or simply walking to the town center, all bathed in the late evening glow. Up in the distance, he can see St. Michael’s college, and then right in front of it, the adobe walls of the San Miguel chapel.

_ Don’t forget to greet Padre Abascal before you leave. _

Dean leads Impala through the opening in the adobe wall around the chapel grounds, only dismounting when he sees a beam in which to secure her reins. Petting her muzzle a few times, he turns to enter the old building.

Once he steps inside, the first thing Dean notices is how airish the adobe walls keep the chapel hall. He removes his hat so that it rests against his neck and makes his way down the pews towards the altar, staring up at the elegant display that stretches up to the wooden beams in the ceiling. Standing at the foot of the raised floor, Dean stares for a while longer in silence.

Dean is not much of a religious person. Sure, his father definitely keeps up appearances with all the crucifixes around the property, the holy water that he brings home, and their celebrations of each holiday, but Dean’s never put his full heart into it all. Nevertheless, he much appreciates the peace of mind the chapel brings.

“Is there something you were looking for, mijo?”

Startled from his reverie, Dean turns on a heel, relaxing when he sees a vaguely familiar figure approaching him from a wooden door to his right. He smiles easily. “Padre Abascal? It’s been a while.”

The padre draws close, extending his arms out to take Dean’s hands in his own. “Winchester? Dean… Winchester. Ay,  _ Diós mío, _ how you’ve grown! What brings you to Santa Fe?”

“My father wanted me to come down and run an errand,” he shrugs, “and I just thought I’d stop by before I left.”

“It’s good to see you, mijo,” Padre beams, squeezing his hands once before dropping them. “How is your family?”

“Good! Good. My father is working a lot, but he has important clients. And Sammy…” Dean fails to suppress the prideful grin that cracks across his face at the thought of his little brother. “Sammy’s still readin’ a lot. Nothing much has happened since we last saw you… he’s still as tall as a darn tree.”

“I’m glad to hear God has been watching over your family. I just remembered I have some more holy water your father might want…  _ ¿Dónde lo puse?... _ Please wait here, mijo, while I go find it.”

Dean is momentarily left alone again, so he takes to staring at the decorative piece behind the altar. The chapel is barely lit with the evening light filtering in through the high-set windows, darker spaces filled with flickering candlelight to suffice. There are a few images of people painted inside of the brass display, but Dean’s eyes are drawn to the image of the Archangel Michael, majestic and powerful with his birds’ wings fully spread.

Thunder rumbles in the distance, and Dean can feel it rumble in his heart.  _ Is this why Missouri was so intent on having him leave so soon? _ He takes a deep breath, taking notice of the earthy freshness that hangs in the air before a storm (as the chapel remains arid with its open windows and doors). There’s something else there too… something that could just be a part of the old chapel, but unsettles something deep within his gut.

He doesn’t process that he’s frowning until he turns around at a second rumble, finding the padre frozen where he came from with a few bottles secured in a small leather bag, staring up at the portrayal of Michael before his gaze slides back down to Dean.

Confused, Dean steps towards him. “Padre? Is everything alright?” His cautious voice seems to snap the padre out of his trance.

“ _ Cielitos _ , no!” he exclaims, rushing forward to place the bag in Dean’s grasp before making a sign of the cross and rushing towards the altar. He’s muttering to himself in half-hysteric Spanish, crouching down to rummage for something in the floorboards. “— _ del modo más horrible posible _ … This is very bad, mijo!”

“What?” Dean’s suddenly on high alert, shoulders tensed and ready for action. “What is it?”

Instead of answering, Padre straightens, holding a bulky leather purse in his hands. Something metallic clinks inside when he moves. When he places the object in Dean’s hands, he can feel the outline of a revolver and a few handfuls of bullets. Dean’s brow furrows further, and he casts a concerned look at the priest.

“Padre…?”

More thunder.

“Listen, mijo,” Padre says, voice lowered and urgent, “you must get out of here as quickly as possible; it is not safe. I need you to keep this safe and with you always — it cannot go into the wrong hands.”

Dean’s brain is buffering, and he can’t fully wrap his mind around the situation yet. “Wh-  _ Why me? _ ” he asks as the padre escorts him out.

Padre Abascal shakes his head, looking solemn. “I do not know, mijo: I am only the messenger.” Dean gulps.

When they step outside, they’re greeted with a gust of wind, only hinting at what may come. That strange smell Dean noticed inside the chapel is slightly stronger.

Seeing Impala unsettled, he rushes to her side and soothes her, packing away the holy water and the revolver amongst the rest of his belongings. Padre is standing just outside of the adobe walls of the grounds, staring blankly at the horizon.

Mounted and ready for the journey home (as much as he wanted to stop by a bed house), Dean stops Impala near the padre so he can bid him farewell.

“I will pray that God will be with you on your journey back,” Padre promises, settling a comforting hand on the one resting on Dean’s thigh. “Though, like the wise man that lent us this warning, I will bid you good luck too, because I believe you will need everything you can get.”

Despite the fact he has no idea what’s going on, Dean’s chest tightens. “And what about you? Will you be alright here?”

His smile is strained. Grim. “This place will not be the same when you return. Do not worry about me.”

“Padre…”

“Now, go, Dean Winchester!  _ For thou, Jehovah, will bless the righteous man; with favour wilt thou surround him as with a shield! When the whirlwind passes, the wicked man is no more, but the righteous man is an everlasting foundation.” _

Tipping his hat towards his old friend, he turns his back to the harsh wind, riding away on a gallop from Santa Fe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The verses Padre Abascal quotes are Psalms 5:12 and Proverbs 10:25.
> 
> Also, fun fact! There actually _was_ a storm in 1872 so bad that it destroyed part of the San Miguel chapel: if you look hard enough, you'll be able to find out what the chapel looked like before the storm, and then there are photographs of both the damage that had been done and how it was later rebuilt. I have also seen photographs of the St. Frances church being built down San Francisco street from the plaza as well as of the Exchange Hotel.


	5. Santa Fe Trail II:  Return

There’s a special stillness in the air; the desert is almost always silent—sparse as it is—but there’s something about  _ this _ that’s suffocating.

Dean has been on edge since he left Padre Abascal in Santa Fe, and his attention snaps to every little breeze or critter noise. The sound of Impala’s hooves against the sand is only somewhat of a solace, but even she seems to be on edge with how her ears have been twitching.

Though it’s been calm where Dean’s been riding on the trail, he can feel the storm circle around them like a predator, swirling around the desert as if it is looking for something. (Perhaps this is the reason Dean finds it so unsettling: the storm has an almost conscious feeling about it, twisting and turning wherever it so pleases). Dean rode hard out of Santa Fe until Impala needed to slow down to a canter — which is quite a distance nevertheless, considering the one-of-a-kind horse Dean has groomed her to become. The one time he stopped to rest, he could see the storm hover over Santa Fe, its tendrils of lightning creeping across the sky and its winds undoubtedly ravaging the town. At one point, Dean had worried over Missouri, but he ended up reminding himself that she could probably take better care of herself than his nerves were telling him.

Some time has passed since he’d first spotted the Wagon Mound in the distance, and Dean can feel the prickle of the storm in the distance again. He fears the consequences if the early summer storm decides to pour rain, so he leads Impala off the trail, seeking adequate shelter from the foot of the rocky landmark.

The shrubbery becomes denser and trees more abundant, so Dean leads Impala over to their epicenter to refill his water canteen and let her drink. If there does happen to be a rare torrent, they probably shouldn’t stop by the stream, so Dean scans their surroundings for a hint as to where they should settle while Impala wades into the creek.

Behind a larger patch of trees and shrubs still a ways away, Dean happens to spot what looks to be a wooden building, half-hidden behind the greenery — it’s almost surprising that he hasn’t noticed it earlier, considering how relatively barren the land around Wagon Mound is. He lets Impala drink for a little while longer, washing his face and hands in the cool water to pass time.

Before she drinks too much, Dean leads her away from the bank, leaving his riding gloves in his pocket and wincing as he mounts her, barely minding his still-tender ankle. He whistles her to a walk, approaching the unknown building with caution.

Turns out there isn’t just one: there are a few haphazardly built structures lined down a make-shift street, serving as a permanent encampment of some sort. Dean had only seen the edge of a saloon, but from where he stands now, he can also make out a general store, a hotel, and various dwellings within his immediate vicinity.

All at once, he knows what’s wrong:  _ it’s still too quiet. _

No matter how small the settlement, there’s almost always someone bustling around, but there’s no one walking down the street, no one waiting in the stores… not even a stray dog lying in the sun. There’s a possibility that Dean could have stumbled upon a ghost town, but everything still feels so… fresh.

Dean dismounts Impala, tying her lead around a beam supporting the hotel. Patting Impala distractedly, his attention drifts to the inside of the hotel, prying for some means of an explanation. He barely registers how his hand dips to his holster, checking for his Beaumont-Adams revolver.

The building is just as quiet on the inside as it is from the outside. There’s a slightly heavier layer of dust on Dean’s finger as he runs it over the check-in desk, and the wood creaks loudly under his boots. The grandfather clock by the stairwell stands still and silent, hands almost resting at noon. There’s not a sign of a living person anywhere, but there’s still cash in the register. Hesitating only once, Dean grabs the change and stuffs it into his pocket.

The general store is in the same condition, as is the grocery store and the saloon. Dean loots for cash when he can, but there’s still perishable food in the grocery and a kerosene lamp burning in the saloon, which further offsets his ease. Though he’s tempted to loot more food and other items while he can, something holds him back, telling him to wait until he has to leave… or at least figure out what in God’s green earth is going on.

Remaining at a loss, Dean resolves to try one of the wooden living shacks near the end of the stretch. This one is more of a house than a lot of his other options, but equally as silent as everything else in the camp.

Stepping up to the door, Dean’s mouth opens to address the resident of the house, but his voice dies in his throat as his knocking only serves to push the door open. Narrowing his eyes, Dean pushes himself inside, hand resting ready on his holster.

“ _ Hello? _ ” he calls out tentatively, keeping his shoulder to the wall as he presses on. The house, only slightly smaller than theirs back at the ranch, is well-lived in but seemingly empty. There are coats hung up by the door, and picture frames and hand-written notes dot the walls and dressers.

When he finally reaches the kitchen, there are plates of half-eaten food lying abandoned on the table, and something bad settles in Dean’s gut. He shifts closer to investigate: while not entirely rotting yet (being protected within the house) the food has to be about a day or two old.

“Hungry?”

Dean’s around on his heel in the blink of an eye, gun cocked in his hand and his heart hammering in his chest. When he has the time to take a breath, he realizes he’s pointing the barrel of his revolver at a middle-aged housewife wearing an apron; taking a few more breaths, he uncocks his gun, lets his hands fall to his sides, and straightens. He does not put the gun back into his holster.

“Sorry about that, ma’am,” he says, mustering a weak smile and tipping his hat towards her. “I didn’t mean to intrude. Promise I’m no criminal.”

“Are you hungry, dear?”

Dean shifts his weight, leaning on the balls of his feet.  _ Something still doesn’t feel right _ .

“Not yet.”  _ Not like her food looks very appetizing _ .

Her beam widens. “Then you must stay for dinner.”

He shakes his head. “No, ‘m afraid I can’t. Say… what’s happened to town?”

“ _ What happened?” _ she parrots. Her head tilts to the side, though she continues to regard Dean with eerie blankness.

“Yeah… Can’t be…” Dean waves his free hand around vaguely, “always like  _ this _ , right?”

“I’m afraid I don’t think there’s anything wrong with this town,” she simpers, and Dean has to pay extra attention to normalizing his breathing when he feels his chest sink.

“Ah, I see.” He edges away from the table, making sure to always keep the woman in his sight. “Well, then I should probably get going…”

“Wherever is it that you leave for in such a hurry? Stay awhile and eat.”

He shakes his head more firmly, really forcing his charming smile to stay on his face. “Nope! Got somewhere to get to, sorry about that! Can’t stay alone with a pretty lady such as yourself—“

“I  _ said _ ,” her smile grows sickeningly sweet and her eyes flicker to black, “ _ stay _ .”

There’s a bang, and Dean only realizes his revolver is drawn when he sees the bullet hole in the housewife’s forehead, dripping blood from the gaping wound.

And she’s still staring back at Dean.  _ Almost like she’s disappointed. _

“Now…  _ that’s not a very nice way to treat a lady!” _ she scolds him. Dean is frozen where he is, reeling in the fact that she’s now a dead woman standing. “Didn’t your parents ever teach you your manners?” She brings a dainty hand to her bullet hole, feeling around for its damage. It squelches horrifically, staining the tips of her fingers. “It’s a shame, really… I quite liked this one.”

Dean doesn’t have enough time to process what she’s saying before he’s picked up by an invisible hand and thrown into the wall. His leg drags over the kitchen table, flinging shattering baldface and old food in every direction. For a moment, Dean can feel pain course through old wounds before he pushes it all to the side, letting the adrenaline coursing through his system take charge.

She’s talking, but Dean’s not paying attention, crawling across the floor on his stomach to reach for where his gun flew from his hand at his impact. The second he gets a hand around the handle, he swings around, sitting back up against the wall and shooting the last five rounds into the woma— _ thing’s _ chest. His own chest is heaving as his arms quake with exertion, but the  _ thing _ is looking at him again, dark patches of blood blooming across the white and flowery fabric of her apron.

It clicks its tongue. “I know this one is already ruined, but there’s no reason for  _ that _ now, is there?” Dean only sees her raise her hand before he’s flying through the air again, crashing through the glass window in the sitting room.

He lays coughing in the sun, surrounded by broken glass. At least he’s not in that  _ thing’s _ sight anymore (or at least he doesn’t think so), but he can feel the sharp stinging in his wrist and ankle again, and his Beaumont-Adams is strewn somewhere inside the house, flung from his grasp as he was thrown. Squeezing his eyes shut as he feels glass cut and embed itself into his palm, he pushes himself up, leaning on the ankle that’s not screaming in pain and hugging the wall of the house.

Now that Dean has the (admittedly minimal) space to breathe, he comes to realize that he’s never encountered anything quite like that…  _ thing _ , before. Sure, there has to be something from where the White Bandit’s myth of immortality originated, but Dean’s watched this woman with his own eyes stand and stare at him with amusement as he emptied his revolver into her chest.  _ No one survives that. _

And then there’s the matter of the eyes. Dean wants to think that it was just a trick of the light, some vivid hallucination, but deep down he  _ knows _ what he saw.  _ Nothing _ can replicate the horrific sense of dread that bleak absence incurs upon his very soul, how merely looking into that darkness that clouded over the woman’s eyes feels like brushing against an unadulterated evil that does not exist upon this earth. He knew there was an undercurrent of malevolent energy about the town the moment he stepped in, but he almost resents having his suspicions confirmed.

Dean limps to where Impala is tied, straining against her reins in a desperate panic. Ignoring the burn and limping faster, Dean does his best to stay out of her blind spot, murmuring hushed words to her in an effort to calm her down. She whinnies and stomps her hooves, and Dean is jostled away from her, putting even more of a strain onto his ankle. He barely dodges out of the way when she slams her rear into the beam, shaking something loose from his belongings as it crashes to the ground and splinters on the edge of the boardwalk.

Momentarily distracted with the commotion, Dean stares at the splinters of shattered wood on the ground, the box itself unsalvageable. The black paint only coats the outer surface of the splinters, and the weird satanic symbols are only recognizable on the larger pieces. Amidst the wreckage lies a small leather purse, half-hidden underneath the debris. Retreating to a safer side of Impala, Dean darts down and grabs it, slipping it into an inner pocket in his duster.

Leaning against the beam, Dean fiddles with Impala’s reins, cursing under his breath when her worrying only tightens them. He almost fails to notice the kid between hay and grass that’s wandering down the street in his direction, staring at Dean’s struggle.

“Get outta here!” he shouts at him, trying to wave him away. “It’s not safe here, go!” The boy doesn’t stop, and it’s only when he sees the housewife appear by his side—also approaching Dean—that he begins to get light of the situation. Reaching for the hidden derringer in his coat, he aims and shoots at the boy before he can think better of it. The bullet hits him square in the chest, but he keeps walking like nothing hit him at all. Dean curses under his breath and rushes to reload.

When he looks up again—merely a few seconds later—he can see people emerging from every shadow, laughing and approaching him with every slow intent a predator has. Dean’s heart thumps so hard that it feels like he shakes with every beat, so he takes a deep breath to clear his mind.  _ How the hell is he supposed to get out of this bad box alive? _

One of the nearer men is closing in quickly from the other side of Impala, so Dean rounds her and shoots. It’s stupid to cling onto such futile hope, watching how the man rolls his shoulder with the force of the bullet and cackles mockingly, but Dean is a stupid man and will not give up so easily.

Desperate for any chance he can grasp, he lunges towards his saddlebags, opening one in search of an extra revolver he always keeps hidden. Inside, the bag Padre Abascal had given him must have gotten loose during the ride, because the long barrel of a gun Dean can’t recognize is poking out, and with one harsh jerk from Impala, it shakes loose of its confines along with one of the bottles the priest had given him. Time slows down as Dean watches the man with now-black eyes close in only a few feet away, gaze fixated on the mysterious revolver that falls to his feet. Dean watches as the bottle falls and crashes to the ground, spraying most of its contents on the shins of both Dean and the man. Dean watches as the water splashes onto the man, sizzling upon impact as he lets out a blood-curdling scream and falls back a few steps.

Dean only has milliseconds between life and death. He’s all too aware of the fact. The revolver is directly between the two of them, and Dean wasn’t dense enough to miss the absolute hunger in which the  _ thing _ regarded the gun.

_ It cannot go into the wrong hands. _

He takes a step forward, reaching for the revolver, when an invisible force squeezes his throat shut, compelling him to reach for his own throat and collapse to his knees. Dean forces his gaze to stay on the man in front of him and study his every move.

“What’s scum like you doing with something like this?” he croons, the gravel in his voice scraping painfully against Dean’s ears. “I almost feel obligated to thank you for bringing this here.” Behind him, Dean watches as even more things approach, decreasing his chances of survival by the second. His lungs burn and tears sting at the corners of his eyes as one of his hands continues to claw at his neck; his other hand slides down his thigh, creeping to the side.

“I think that would be too nice on you,” the man continues, frowning mockingly. “I don’t usually like to play with my food, but… I think you’re something special.” He winks. Dean’s head spins, fading in and out of focus as he struggles to stay conscious. “Well, I should probably keep this,” he says, leaning over and reaching for the revolver. “You know… for safekeeping.”

The man’s fingers are only inches from the gun when Dean’s fingers wrap around the neck of the broken bottle, and in an instant he’s swinging forward, spraying the last remnants of the water directly into the face of the man. As soon as he hears hissing, the grasp is released, and Dean chokes on burning breaths of fresh air as his chest heaves, drowned only by the enraged howling of the man. Using his momentum, he grabs the revolver and shoves it into a pocket so he can keep a closer guard on it. He’s still seeing red around his vision, tasting iron in his mouth, and his world sways with both oxygen refilling his brain and the pain that reverberates across his body, but he pulls himself up again, hitting the man across the face with the sharp end of the bottle neck. Blood immediately floods his face like a biblical waterfall, gushing from his cheeks and his nose and even his eye, rendering his screams to mere gurgles underneath the steam that escapes his open wounds. There’s more  _ things _ that are closing in around him, so Dean wastes no time in kicking the man in front of him in the abdomen and away before rummaging through his stuff for the revolver he was looking for and the entire bag of bottles Padre Abascal gave him.

By the time the saddlebags are secure enough, the other  _ things _ are close enough in reach, so Dean swings the bottle at all those he can reach again, giving himself precious time to stagger over to the hotel beam and finish loosening Impala’s reins. He’s barely holding onto the beam when he slaps her rump and shouts “ _ Go! _ ”, watching helplessly as she gallops through any  _ thing _ standing in her way and away from him. He can only make out the general direction she’s heading towards before he feels like his limbs are being pulled apart, fought over by multiple forces.

“What a  _ noble soldier _ , sacrificing himself to—“

“—leaving yourself all alone—“

“—righteous people  _ disgust _ me—“

“—won’t last long—“

Despite literally feeling like he’s being torn apart, Dean smirks in the face of death, feeling something primal and unhinged seep from his very bones as he sees black eyes flickering all around him. Out of the corner of his eyes, he watches one of the bottles drop from his satchel, rolling unnoticed by the feet of his company.

It’s only the sliver of a moment with an immense level of willpower that Dean regains his control, but he slumps against the wooden beam, concentrating on freeing one of the other bottles in the satchel and opening its cap, immediately sending a wave of holy water into his crowd. There’s a sudden wall of cacophony that’s like nails against a chalkboard to Dean’s ears, but he uses the distraction to bolt out of the center of attention, focused more on  _ getting out of danger _ rather than the excruciating burn coursing through his every limb.

Dean limps away as fast as he can towards the saloon, holding the open bottle of holy water in the general direction of his crowd in a threat as his other hand rummages around for his alternative six-shooter. He’s barely a few yards away when the  _ things _ on the outskirts of the crowd—mostly unharmed by the holy water—start to charge towards him, so he draws his gun and cocks it.

“And how do you think you’ll stop us,  _ you fucking bitch?” _ one of them taunts while the other sneer, whooping out suggestions of what they want to do with him.

Using a blessed stroke of inspired energy, Dean smirks. “Like this,” he says, before pointing his revolver to their feet and shooting. He turns around before confirming the bullet’s impact, praying on the last shreds of his hope and his childhood around guns that it hits its target. His pace quickens to a limping half-run as he hears glass shatter, providing an effective bomb at the center of its victims. He hears anguished screams as he feels a few escaped shards of glass pellet his back, but he ignores them in favor of using the few moments he bought to slip into the shadows unnoticed.

Between two wooden buildings, Dean takes a risk and turns away from the saloon, instead limping back to the direction he came from. It’s dangerous, for sure, and the last thing Dean wants is to be near those monsters again, but something in his gut tells him that they won’t even consider Dean retreating to hide in this direction and instead attempt to trace him based on the direction he was headed.

By the time Dean’s dragged himself so that he’s essentially behind the hotel, tucked in an alcove that hides him not only from the back of the hotel, but also enough from the front while maintaining some visual of the street (as much as a few peepholes between uneven planks can give him), the  _ things _ have dispersed, angry and searching for Dean. His chest tightens at the thought, but he can’t allow himself to give his position away.

He needs a plan. He might have escaped, but in reality, his solution only gave Dean more time, if much at all. These black-eyed devils can’t die, only hindered marginally with holy water…

_ Ah _ . Dean’s head spins with the realization.  _ They’re demons. _

He tries to take a calming breath, but it’s stuttered.  _ Demons. Fuck his life. _

Checking his view of the street and finding the same demons milling around as they were last time, Dean stows his six-shooter into his holster. The pain is slowly beginning to register in his moment of rest, so he leans against the worn wood of the hotel wall, taking even more pressure off his fucked ankle.

There are still a couple of bottles in the bag Padre Abascal gave him, but Dean wants to be sparing with his resources. The opened bottle in his hand still has about half of its contents, which, if he’s smart, can be used wisely. Though…  _ the broken glass from the other bottle still seemed to be effective against that one demon… _

Dean’s head bumps against the wooden planks as he tilts his head up, grinning widely to suppress his satisfied chuckle. Of course. If he dips his bullets into the holy water, then they should become  _ some _ sort of repellant to the demons, shouldn’t they?

And then there’s the matter of the mysterious revolver: that one demon was so desperate to get his hands on it, and no doubt the other demons saw it too.  _ Why is it so important to them, and why was Dean entrusted to keep it safe? _ When he takes it out to examine it in the little light he’s spared, all he can note is that it looks like some out-of-commission Colt model, and that none of his bullets would fit in its barrel; he curses himself for leaving its bullets with Impala. With a lurch, he suddenly hopes that the demons haven’t caught up with her yet.

The demons are shouting again, and Dean fumbles with the Peacemaker, hiding it in his pockets again to peek through the wooden planks in his way. He’s only partially relieved when he sees that the attention isn’t directed at him, but that revelation only encourages a fresh wave of confusion. He shifts as best as he can, but his view remains limited.

A thick cloud of black smoke rushes by his line of sight, and he instinctively shrinks back to the side, drawing in his breath. There was something alive by it, something so originally evil, that makes him think it has something to do with the demons. Nonetheless, all he can see is that the crowd of demons are back, fighting something Dean can’t quite see.  _ What in hell can even demons be so scared of? _

He gets his answer when a figure steps over the crumpling body of a demon. Something akin to terror and fascination battles in his heart, watching the masked man in a white hooded poncho step around each provocation from a demon rather indifferently. He does it with such practiced ease that it looks like he’s dancing — Dean can’t help but stare, his lips unconsciously parted.

From where he’s hiding, Dean can’t quite see what the White Bandit is holding, but he drives what looks like a knife into the abdomen of an unsuspecting victim, their life quite literally flashing away like lightning across the sky. As the lifeless demon falls to the ground, the Bandit swivels around and brings his hand to another’s face; that victim writhes around only for a few moments before they collapse in a cloud of… what looks like  _ ash _ . Dean can’t stop gazing at his savior in action, stronger than the demons that almost killed Dean yet not spilling a drop of blood on his clothes.

There’s a small part of Dean that wants to fear the White Bandit. He remembers the night he was saved with perfect clarity, remembers the kindness in his words and actions, the stilted amicability Dean wooed from him only achievable by those with lacking social skills… he can only imagine what those icy blue eyes look like now, aflame with the power of death at his hands. If demons can ruin Dean to where he’s cowering now, hiding like a wounded animal… then what can the White Bandit do?

Dean suddenly understands the fear-filled myths that surround the White Bandit.

He shakes his head, shooing away those ludicrous thoughts.  _ Dean Winchester doesn’t fear… so why would he fear his own savior? _

Heart thumping for what feels like different reasons than earlier, Dean pushes himself away from his little alcove, using determination to drive himself forward. He uses any surface he can reach to support himself, but with the growing silence ahead, he pushes himself further, desperate to not let the White Bandit out of his reach again. His eyes blur with… what, excitement?... at the thought of being face-to-face with the legend once more.

Free and out in the open, warmed by the now-blazing sun, Dean searches his new breadth of view with wavering confidence, skipping over the bodies that lie still in the dust. He drags himself to the center of the destruction, seeing brutal gashes slashes across some corpses, and faces completely and unrecognizably burnt off of others.

Gasping for breath, he stops in the middle of the road, staring in the direction towards which the White Bandit was headed.

And everything is silent.

* * *

Dean found Impala by the banks of the creek they had first stumbled upon, thankfully unharmed. It took him at least an hour to drag himself there — more, if you take into consideration the time he spent searching for his Beaumont-Adams and the time he spent scavenging inside the general store.

Though building a fire felt like a lot of effort, it’s well worth it when Dean has sizzling strips of bacon in front of him, bathed in their own grease. He even treats himself to a few squares of chocolate that he found in the general store, relishing the smooth sweetness that spreads across his tongue.

Bathing is also quite the effort, but the creek water is cool against his aches, so he sits in its light current as he scrubs away the blood and grime that’s spattered across his clothes. Dean also takes the opportunity to tend to his new injuries, rebandaging the old but freshened sprains and cleaning out any cuts, all while chewing on fresh willow bark. One of his ribs is probably fractured now (with how he still finds difficulty in breathing properly), and the glass in his palm stings as he pries it out with his fingernails. There’s probably also glass in his back from his makeshift bomb, but he can only extract one shard of glass from his shoulder, hoping that he can get home quick enough to get Sammy to look over it. His entire being hurts like a bitch, but he takes solace in remembering the booze flask that’s rolled up in his hen skins.

By the time he’s finally clean and wrapped up in his spare change of clothes, Dean puts out his fire, making the executive decision to drag Impala and himself back to the ghost town. The bodies strewn about aren’t exactly pleasant, but at least they’d be in better cover from other wild animals that find their way to the creek during the night, and Dean is tempted with the mere thought of a mattress tucked away in the house where everything began; his sleeping ability will already be questionable, so he reasons that he should at least be comfortable as he tries to get some shut eye.

While packing up, Dean’s hand lingers over the items he took out of his duster coat before cleaning it. He frowns at them before picking up the Colt, examining it closely now that he’s not at death’s doorstep.

The revolver really is quite beautiful. All along the barrel and the hammer, the metal is ingrained with looping, leaf-like designs, all smooth to the touch. On the wooden grip, there’s a worn carving of a pentagram, not unlike some of the symbols that covered the box that concealed his father’s errand. Holding it out in front of him, Dean cocks the hammer with ease, feeling how the cylinder smoothly rotates to align the next chamber. His finger barely hovers over the trigger, ghosting the cool metal with his fingertip.

Smiling, he tucks it safely away. He’d love to show it to his father, but in remembering Padre Abascal’s warning of its importance, he has a feeling it’s supposed to be a well-kept secret.  _ Oh well. _

Speaking of secrets, the other item that had been stowed away in his coat is the small leather pouch that was inside the weird box Missouri entrusted to him. She  _ did _ tell him not to snoop, but Dean thinks he deserves to know what he risked his life for.

The pouch has some weight to it, just holding it in the palm of his hand, and when he loosens the drawstring and shakes out its contents, a golden pocket watch tumbles out.

Dean knows nothing about watches, but there’s something about this one that is extraordinarily breathtaking. Both the watch and its heavy chain are almost certainly pure gold, and the outside of the watch is heavily engraved — even the loop for the chain has been carved into regal swirls. On the front, depicted in a darker, iron-like color, is a complex depiction of the sun, surrounded with the twelve phases of the moon. All around them—if Dean looks very closely—the intricate, extra-detailed designs look almost like little flames, like the sun is spreading her reach as she can. When Dean snaps the watch open, he sees a white clock face staring back at him, set perfectly with roman numerals and two delicate hands: the minutes stopped at twelve, and the hours stopped at two.

The strangest thing about the pocket watch is how it feels in Dean’s hand: it feels somewhat warm rather than the cool chill metal is supposed to have, and almost…  _ familiar _ .

He snaps the watch shut.  _ This is his father’s _ ; he’s not even supposed to know what it is. He wants to scoff at the absurdity of almost losing his life over a small little watch, but he can’t stop staring at the damn thing in his hand, so he stuffs it back into its leather pouch.

Stepping back to stow away the rest of his belongings, Dean tucks the pocket watch’s pouch into his breast pocket, directly above his heart.

Despite knowing that the watch is not wound, something about it makes him feel like it’s alive.


	6. Family and Truth

Impala is panting, but Dean can see the family ranch and outpost partially hidden up ahead, highlighted by the gradually descending sun. She must recognize home too, because despite the exhaustion Dean has seen wear on her for the duration of the journey, she pushes through the last home stretch without any complaint; any pain and fatigue—from either of them, apparently—can wait.

When they’re close enough, Dean can see someone on a horse in the distance, ambling out in front of the barn. The rider pauses, and, probably spotting Dean approaching, beckons their horse towards the cabin with haste. Dean almost scoffs to himself:  _ Does he really look so beaten up from this distance? _

By the time he’s past the corrals and approaching the porch, Sam is barreling through the front door and down the steps, Jo hot on his trail. Dean offers them both a weak smile, waving lazily as they approach.

“Howdy,” he says. “It’s been a while.”

“Dean,” Sam breathes out, exasperated. “When we saw the smoke, we thought—”

He shakes his head. “I’m fine; I’ll tell you everything later. I was…” Dean squeezes his eyes shut, blinking away scenes he’d rather not remember. “I’m glad the fire didn’t get to you guys.”

Sam reaches up, easing the reins away from his hands and passing them to Jo. “No, we’re okay.” He smiles, and Dean sags in relief.

Pushing away Sam’s helping hand, he dismounts heavily, crumpling when he accidentally lands on his bad ankle. Sam’s arms are around him in an instant, holding him up as Dean waits for the fresh wave of stinging pain to pass. Grimacing, he bites his tongue and forces himself up (much to Sam’s apparent chagrin), letting himself use his brother as support.

“Don’t even start, Winchester,” Jo tells him when she sees him make a face. He pouts, watching her begin to lead Impala to the barn.

_ “If I find she’s not being given ace-high treatment—” _

“It’s good to have you back, Dean.”

Grumbling, Dean feels the last of his energy seep out of him now that he has his brother at his side, so he ends up half-stumbling to the cabin. Sam—the ever-patient soul that he is—is only there as his pillar of strength and lets Dean set the pace.

“You look like absolute shit,” he says when they finally make it to the porch. Dean rolls his eyes.

“You think? Going to hell and back does that to a man.”  _ It’s a surprisingly accurate statement _ ; Dean barks out a self-deprecating laugh at the thought.

“Can’t wait to hear all about it.”

The cabin is silent inside: everyone else must be out working, whether in the barn or out with the herd. Despite the fact that he’s missed company, Dean’s almost glad that no one is around to see him in all of his weakness.

“Shit, Sammy: I can make it to our room from here.”

Sam’s brow furrows,  _ that concerned bastard _ . “Dean, are you sure…?”

“Yeah, yeah… I’m hungry as all hell — we got any leftovers?”

Sam frowns, but seeing Dean supported against the wall of the hallway, he allows his arms to fall. “I made beef stew last night, and I think there’s still some left in the pot.”

“Thanks, Sammy.”

“Don’t call me that,” he says, but his smile is fond, and that’s all Dean needs.

Sighing the moment Sam is gone, Dean forces himself up to their room, dragging his feet all the way there. His bed is such a welcoming sight that he all but collapses onto the blankets, still wearing his duster and boots and riding gloves. He’s sweaty and dusty and grimy from the trip, but as soon as his eyes flutter shut, he’s out like a light.

* * *

Dean only senses that he’s half awake when he feels how every ache in his body has settled like oil in water. Groaning into the pillow in his face, he shifts in a miniscule attempt to relieve the discomfort.

“He’s awake!” Sam drawls from somewhere in the room. Dean just grunts.

Wiggling his toes, he can feel them breathe for the first time in a while — Sam must have taken off his boots at some point while he slept. His coat is still on, and he can feel the Colt digging into his side, so he shifts the coat from underneath himself and snuggles further into his blankets.

“Your duster’s in shreds… did the fire have claws too?” Sam observes, but thankfully doesn’t prod at the damage yet. Dean mumbles incoherently before trailing off.

Dean doesn’t know how long he lays there in silence, with Sammy waiting too patiently for him to say something. He’s still trying to get his brain unscrambled, torn between clinging to the last dregs of sleepiness and waking up to attend to his scrapes.

Sighing, he musters as much energy as he can to murmur: “ _ Arbuckle’s _ .” He can almost feel Sam’s eye-roll from across the room.

“Maybe you’ll be less crabby. I’ll reheat your stew, too, because I’m  _ such a nice brother.” _ Dean barely has enough energy to snort into his pillow.

Because he dozes while Sam’s gone, it’s like no time has passed when Sam’s clunking footsteps are making their way back into their room. Dean can smell the stew in his hands, especially given the way it makes his stomach rumble. Still, it takes Sam shaking his shoulder for Dean to groan and roll over, sitting up against the wall with a hot mug of coffee in his hands.

“We’re just gonna have to dunk both you and the bed into the creek at this point,” Sam notes playfully, looking at his rumpled blankets and how dirty Dean is all over. He’s sitting in a chair across from their beds with a book in his lap as he takes in his brother’s state.

“A hot bath would be nice.”

“We can boil some water after you eat up.”

“How long was I out?”

“Only a few hours. It’s well past sundown now.”

Taking another long sip from his coffee, Dean scans the room. Darkness saturates the view outside of the window, and there’s a few kerosene lamps lit around the room.

“You more than deserve sleeping in tomorrow,” Sam continues. “If you don’t take the day off, I’ll probably knock you out myself.”

“Heh. Like you could.”

“ _ Dean _ .”

“Yeah, whatever. I’ll take care of Impala or sumthin’.” Another sip. “Where’s Dad?”

Sam hesitates. “He’s… out.”

“ _ Are you fucking kidding me? _ The hell is he doing?”

“I don’t actually know. He said he was just going to do a small delivery, but then he went on about some lead.”

Dean frowns. “You think he got a lead on Mom’s killer?”

“ _ Dean _ ,” Sam sighs. “She died almost three decades ago now. Even if it wasn’t some sort of accident—”

“We both  _ heard _ him say he saw the bastard that—”

“— _ Even if it wasn’t some sort of accident, _ ” Sam repeats curtly, “then what’s to say they haven’t died already? Or gotten caught? Three decades is a long time.”

“If he says he found a lead…”

“How many leads has he found in the past three decades, Dean? Tell me,  _ how many?” _ Sam looks at him pointedly, so Dean grumbles indistinctly into his mug. “Exactly. It’s gonna be another wild goose chase and all it’ll do is rile you both up again. You both need to let it go.”

“Yeah, but if you  _ knew _ her—”

“She was a stranger to me, Dean. You were the one who raised me, and I hate Dad for putting that responsibility on your head.”

“Don’t say—”

Sam throws his hands up. “It’s true! What else do you want me to say…  _ I’m glad your childhood was robbed of you because  _ I _ needed taking care of? _ ” He sighs, dropping his arms and ruffling his shaggy mane of hair. “I’m just tired of seeing both of you run yourselves ragged because he’s so fixated on revenge. If you’d just let it go, we’d all have been able to move on much earlier.”

“All we want is justice for Mom, Sammy.”

“Do you even know what they were doing that got her killed?”

“ _ No! _ Do you?”

“That’s my point! There’s too many questions that we never asked, so there’s no reason it should become our problem too. I don’t want to see you destroy yourself because you’re trying to become Dad.”

“I’m not—” Dean says before pressing his lips closed. He finishes off his coffee before leaning forward and reaching for his stew, stuffing a spoonful into his mouth to avoid replying.

“I don’t want to have this conversation again,” Sam admits, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed. “That’s one thing you got from Dad — you’re both stubborn asses.”

“So are you, bitch.”

“Jerk.”

They’re both smiling again, so the tense atmosphere from their quarrel gradually recedes.

“Point is,” Sam continues, shifting in his spot, “Dad left a few days ago, so he’ll probably be back soon.”

“Still,” Dean says, pointing his spoon at his brother, “shitty of him to send me away to cut dirt as fast as possible and then disappear for my return party.”

“Like that’s new?” Waving away any protests, Sam stands up. “Now that it looks like your brown gargle’s kicked in, I’ll go start boiling some water for your bath while you finish eating. You can tell me what happened then.”

Dean inhales his food now that he’s not distracted by his brother. Leaving his dishes on the desk for later and his duster on a bedpost, he heaves himself up, wincing at the soreness that permeates every limb. His nap may have helped it all settle a bit, but at least the bath will soothe it further. After locating some more willow bark and popping that into his mouth, he hobbles out of the room and towards the bath shed.

There’s already cool water in the basin, and the kerosene lamp that hangs from a hook on the roof flickers shadows across the wooden walls. Dean takes his sweet time stripping off his absolutely filthy clothes and bandages, laying them down on the bench to the side so they can be taken for laundry later. As he’s removing his pants, Sam enters the bathhouse with a large pot of boiled water and dumps it into the basin. Thanking him minutely, Dean stirs the water around before climbing in.

“Your clothes fucking reek.” Sam scrunches his nose, pushing them to the far side of the bench as Dean laughs. When Dean slides himself deeper into the water, the chuckle turns into a low groan of relief, and consequently sputtering when he’s attacked by the bar of soap that Sam lobs at him. As he begins to scrub every inch of his skin, Sam finally takes notice of his war wounds.

“Jeez…” Sam mutters, jaw squished in his hand with his elbow on his knee, “were you really dragged to hell and back?”

“Crawled out myself,” Dean grins wryly. He sucks in air through his teeth when his fingers feel over his bruised ribs.

“What  _ happened _ to you?”

Dean pauses, dropping the hand holding the soap bar into the water. His arms rest on his knees, barely below the surface of the water due to the size of the basin and how long his legs are.

“Will you even believe me?” he finally answers, staring hard at his brother. Sam returns his stare curiously.

“As long as you’re not pulling my leg—”

“I wouldn’t believe any of it if I hadn’t seen it with my own two eyes.”

Sam doesn’t reply. Though his eyes are alight with intrigue, he bites his lip, nodding for Dean to continue.

“I, uh…” He continues to wash himself, just to have something to do with his hands. “I  _ did _ get stuck in the fire, in the middle of the night. I tried—” he gulps, feeling like ash is crawling up his throat as he tries to speak. “I tried to escape, but… I got grassed. Sprained my ankle and my wrist, bruised my ribs, and got a big ol’ goose egg on the melon. I… uh… All I could see was fire before I passed out.”

“… You were  _ grassed _ ? In the fire?”

“Yeah. In a dry patch, but not for long.”

Sam’s face scrunches up. “So…? How are you  _ here _ ?”

Dean pauses for a few moments. He’s gone over this conversation in his head thousands of times on the way back from Santa Fe, but it’s only now that he falters, aware of how much he relies on Sam to hear him out and help him… what,  _ research? Find the guy? _

“Do you remember the White Bandit?” he says at last. He runs his fingers through his stubble, thinking idly about the face of his savior in addition to the fact that he’s in need of a shave.

“Yeah,” Sam laughs. “You used to use that threat on me all the time… didn’t even learn the entire legend until Bobby took us to see Ellen that one time…” His brow furrows. “Wait…  _ what are you…?” _

Dean forces out a strained smile, not even trying to meet his brother’s eyes. “Well, right before I blacked out, I could’ve sworn I saw someone on a white horse come towards me. When I woke up again,  _ he _ was there. Across the campfire.”

Both brothers are silent for a few minutes. Sam is evidently trying to process Dean’s words, trying to piece together a semblance of the picture for which he had been provided. Dean sits in anticipation, mind whirling too quickly for him to bother thinking about saying anything else.

“So he was…  _ with you _ ,” Sam starts out slowly, tasting the words in his mouth.

Dean nods. “Tended to my aches. Found myself cleaned up and bandaged, and he gave me willow bark and this edible cactus shit.” Sam’s confusion only deepens.

“How are you  _ sure _ it was…?”

“It didn’t even occur to me that it was him when I woke up; I only realized once I was in Santa Fe. Heard a bunch of rumors that he’d been seen in the area, and then it clicked.”

“I thought you were still in Kansas when—”

“Must’ve followed me, I dunno.”

Sam laughs disbelievingly, running a hand through his hair. “Man… you’re not kidding me? Are you serious?”

“Sam, if you don’t believe me—”

“I’m trying to, I’m trying to…” he reassures him, “it’s just…  _ well _ , you don’t really see myths every day. What did he look like?”

“White hooded poncho, like everyone says… but his mask is dark blue. He, um, he wears a white bandana, but he’d pulled it down… he has dark stubble.” Sam raises an eyebrow at that. “ _ What? _ He didn’t even give me his name; I was gonna try to get anything I could get.”

“So he  _ did _ speak?”

“Not too much. Just… well, he said he was a wanderer. He also said that he saved me… oh, and that he saw Impala. He even brought me to where he had seen her — I thought she bit the ground.”

“… What did he sound like?”

Dean can’t help the genuine that creeps across his lips. “All gravel. Like he smokes a pack a day.”

“Hot,” Sam snorts before shielding himself from the wave of water Dean splashes at him. “But seriously… are you  _ sure _ you didn’t take any peyote—?”

“ _ No! _ Dammit, Sam, I  _ didn’t! _ I would’ve thought I’d hallucinated it too if it weren’t for the willow bark in my pocket and the bandages around my aches.”

Frowning, Sam studies the floorboards of the shed. As he mulls over Dean’s admittedly unrealistic story, Dean sighs, taking to washing his hair with the soap and dunking himself completely underwater.

“What do you want to do about it?” Sam asks, right as Dean resurfaces and wipes water from his eyes. Dean slicks his hair back slowly, thinking the question over.

“I’m not sure,” he admits. “I… I need to know more of his story, his myth. When he left me with Impala, I was so busy with her that I didn’t even notice how he just… he just  _ disappeared _ , Sam. No sound,  _ nothin’ _ . And… and every story, every myth I heard in Santa Fe… I was the only person he saved and fixed up.”

“Yeah… isn’t he known for being ruthless and leaving no survivors?”

“Exactly! And the one person I talked to who was saved by him… well, he just  _ left _ her.”

“How old is he now?” Sam muses. “I mean… his legend existed at least since you were raising me.”

“That’s the thing, Sammy: he was probably around my age, probably a bit older. That’s it.”

Sam stares at him for a while, studying the severity in his expression. The lamplight flickers, casting shadows across both of their faces.

“I find it hard to believe that he was out killing at the tender age of five years old,” Sam teases, and Dean snickers along with him. “I can help you try and look into his story, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“You know,” Dean continues, “I  _ did _ actually see him again.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah.” The water is starting to get cold, and Dean has scrubbed every bit of himself quite thoroughly at this point. “Hey, can you pass me my towel?” Sam nods, doing so. “So I don’t get a chill, I’ll tell you the rest while I rebandage myself.”

“I’ll go find the medkit,” his brother says. “And just leave the damn basin: as filthy as you were, I’m overdue for a bath too.”

He’s gone again, so Dean takes his time to dry off, reaching for the clean and dry pair of pants that Sam left on the bench for him. Along with the willow bark in effect and a hearty meal in his system, the bath was successful in assisting his healing, and Dean feels lazier and more relaxed than like a wounded animal. Letting the towel hang around his shoulders, he grabs his laundry and makes his way back to his room.

Sitting on the bed, he rolls up his pant leg, aimlessly checking the bruising there: while it was healing well when he got to Santa Fe, he must have re-sprained it during his encounter with the demons, because while it hurt like a bitch, it also grew darker.

“I won’t need to wrap the ankle or wrist now, but I might do the ribs,” Dean murmurs out loud, partially to himself. He can hear Sam bustling around one side of their room, so he turns to look at him over his shoulder. “I’ll need you to take out any glass that’s still in my back.”

Sam winces sympathetically. “Something tells me that’s not from a bar fight.”

“I wish.”

“I was gonna say those injuries are a little worse for wear for being so old, but you mentioned seeing your desert angel again… I presume those weren’t under favorable conditions either.”

Tossing a flask of whiskey to Dean, Sam joins him with a needle, tweezers, and gauze in hand, scooting across the mattress behind him. Dean busies himself with his drink as his skin prickles with his brother’s stare, observing the raised wounds scattered across his back.

“Looks like you got pox,” he finally says, laughing in disbelief.

“Shut up.”

“A lot of the skin’s healed over, but I don’t think any of it got too deep. What the hell happened to you on the way back?”

Dean grins. “If you thought the whole White Bandit thing was crazy, just wait ‘til you hear this.”

And so he tells him. He goes into detail about what he saw and what heroic thing was going through his mind, mostly as a distraction from Sam digging into his back to pry shards of glass from his flesh. When he first explains the creature with the black eyes, Sam stops what he’s doing, listening to his brother’s experience.

“You’re sure they were black,” he states more than asks. There’s something serious and resolute about his voice.

Dean nods. “Yeah. You don’t feel right lookin’ at ‘em, man. And when I was surrounded… well, they were everywhere. If I were any more a poet, I’d say they weren’t just black but something different.”

“And? Any idea what they were?”

“With that bad feeling around them and the reaction to holy water, I’d say demons.”

“You’re probably right,” Sam sighs, which takes Dean aback. He does his best to look at him over his shoulder.

“ _ This _ is easier to believe than the whole White Bandit business?”

Sam’s mouth is curled in contemplation, studiously watching his hands as he works to clean and dress one of the de-glassed wounds. “I’ve poked around in Dad’s office more times than I can count, and I’ve read all the weird books he keeps. I always brushed it off as one of his crazy theories about Mom, but… Dean, that’s exactly how they’re depicted.”

There’s something about having these surreal experiences confirmed in writing that makes his experience legitimate, and it makes him sick. He bites his tongue.

“You’ve been snooping in Dad’s stuff?” he teases instead, cursing sharply when Sam splashes alcohol on one of his open wounds. “Why the hell does he have that kinda shit?"

Sam makes an “ _ I don’t know _ ” sound. “To be fair, it was all on the higher shelves, and curiosity got the best of me. I always just thought it was the weird old stuff people tend to accumulate over the years, but now I’m wondering how much of that stuff is legitimate.”

“… How much weird stuff  _ does _ he have there?”

“You’d be surprised; I always just thought he liked legends a lot.”

“Y’know… I always hated going to mass, but now that I think about it—”

“Dad’s more precautious than religious.”

Dean grimaces. “Yeah.”

It’s a fact neither of them likes to face, dwelling in the realization in silence.  _ Had they really gone their entire lives not knowing of the existence of these demons, when in reality, they were probably all around them? _ Dean can’t decide whether he was happier in blissful ignorance or knowing the truth.

“We’re gonna have to read up on it,” Dean says, taking a swig of his firewater. “Maybe Dad’s protected the ranch enough, but what about when we go to town? I already almost bit the ground a few times just going to Santa Fe.”

“Oh yeah, speaking of… what did Dad ask you to pick up that you almost died for?”

Dean laughs. “Now that I think about it, it isn’t so weird anymore, but… I actually met with Missouri—”

“Moseley? That psychic Dad knows?”

“Yeah!”

“How’s she doing?”

“Good, I think. Doesn’t look a day over forty, and she sends her blessings.”

“I guess we kinda need them now.”

“Yeah… but anyways, she gave me this weird scary voodoo box that Dad had apparently been looking for. Painted black with all these satanic symbols and shit all over it, I think it was locked too.”

When Dean glances back at him, Sam seems unsettled. “Did she or Dad ever tell you what was inside?”

“Nope. She even warned me not to go peeking after I left.”

“Dean…”

“ _ What? _ The box shattered when I was trying to save my ass from those demons… I just picked up what was inside and kept it with me.”

Sam is definitely torn between incredulity and intrigue. “What—… Did you ever see what was inside?”

“A leather pouch,” Dean says with a shit-eating grin. Sam pinches his side, making him yelp. “ _ Fine! _ Here, I’ll show you.”

Scooting further onto the bed so that he can both reach for his duster and face his brother, he digs in the pocket of his coat until his fingers bump against the small but heavy leather pouch. He takes it out slowly for the dramatism, way too entertained by the slightly impatient look in his brother’s eye. Holding it in one palm, he undoes the drawstring all the way so that it falls into his lap, leaving a square of leather in his hand and the glinting object itself.

As Dean goes to seize the pocket watch, Sam reaches out suddenly, crying “ _ Dean, no!” _ Dean only makes pause when the warm pocket watch is in his bare hand, staring incredulously at how his brother is frozen, eyes wide.

“What?” Dean asks dumbly, blinking at Sam’s reaction. Sam eyes the watch in his hand warily, gulping before forcing himself to sit back, lips pursed.

“Another thing I read about briefly—and maybe even saw one or two of—in Dad’s office was curse boxes,” he explains. “Apparently things can have bad mojo on them, and so they’re put into curse boxes so that they can’t hurt anyone.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “How come you found all this shit in Dad’s office and never told me?”

“What was I going to  _ say? _ That Dad is keeping all this creepy shit in his office?”

“ _ Yes! _ ”

“Yeah, well… I didn’t want you to— hm. Either way, I found it all over a long period of time — kinda diminishes the effect. Didn’t really process how weird it was.” Huffing, he leans forward, tentatively touching at Dean’s forearm. “Lemme see it.”

Uncurling his fingers, he lifts his hand up for Sam’s inspection. Though his nose comes awfully close to the golden lid itself, he still doesn’t seem to dare touch it, jolting back when Dean jokingly swings it up into his face.

“What’s got your panties in a twist?” he says, earning a harsh glare from his brother. “Doesn’t seem very cursed to me.”

“Still don’t trust it. You were the first to touch it after it fell out of the box, I have no idea what it’ll do to me.” Sam frowns. “I’m still worried about what it’ll do to you — it was probably in that box for a reason.”

“Sammy, the weirdest thing it’s done is be a little warm. What’s the worst it can do?”

Sam stares him dead in the eye. “I’ll quote you on that.”

Rolling his eyes, Dean moves to put it away again. “Whatever. I hope Dad’s happy with it.”

“Dean. You  _ opened _ it.”

“The box broke.”

“And somehow I get the feeling Dad won’t take that as an excuse.”

Dean shrugs. “With demons on my ass and the White Bandit saving my ass, I can’t really bring myself to care right now. Did my saddlebags ever make it up here?”

“Jo brought ‘em in while you were asleep,” he says, pointing to them sitting in a corner Dean had failed to notice.

“I’d rather not get up right now, but if you go lookin’, I gotcha a book on astronomy, and… well, I got a big old bible of myths, but I dunno if it’ll even do Dad’s collection justice.”

Sam gets up, moving his tools away from the bed (he must have finished cleaning up Dean’s back before the whole curse box thing). “We can start researching tomorrow” I have to brush up on what I actually found in Dad’s office.”

“Yeah.” Dean’s yawn is so big that he almost can’t open his mouth wide enough. “Definitely tomorrow. I need my beauty sleep.”

“You didn’t have your Arbuckle’s  _ that _ long ago,” Sam chides him teasingly.

“You know I can down four mugs of that strong shit and still sleep like a baby, Sammy.”

“There’s something wrong with you.”

“Uhuh. Go take your bath, asshat.”

Dean falls asleep so quickly that Sam ends up having to pull his blanket over his brother’s sprawled figure before he even leaves the room.

* * *

Dean is washing his face of shaving cream when he hears his brother holler from the front of the house. Sighing, he grabs a towel and pats himself dry, tossing it to the side and staring at himself in the dingy mirror.

_ Dad’s home. _

Some part of Dean wants to be spiteful, wants to wait for his father to come searching for him, but he’s a dutiful son at heart, so he goes to search for the pocket watch; he left it in his duster before he passed out, so it’s easy enough to grab and stuff into his pants pocket, but his hand brushes up against the Colt while rummaging for the small leather purse. Pausing, he takes out the gun and its bullets, staring at them in thought.

He forgot to tell Sammy about it,  _ but should he tell his father? _ John Winchester is an expert in firearms, crafting rifles as a profession. Padre Abascal had told him to keep it safe, to make sure it didn’t get into the wrong hands, but… he never said anything about him keeping it a secret.

Still somewhat irked about his father’s disregard to Dean’s sacrifices in running his errand, Dean stuffs them deep underneath his mattress, deciding not to tell him at all. “ _ Keeping it safe _ ” usually means something along the lines of Dean keeping his damn mouth shut, and there is no need for anyone else to know, as much of an interesting specimen it proves to be.

Dean finds him in the sitting room, with Sammy leaning against the front doorway, arms crossed. When John takes sight of his son, he beams, stepping forward with his arms spread. An old part of Dean—something resembling a dependent child—fights its way through his chest at the sight, and he can feel tension easing from his posture as he slumps into his father’s arms. His father’s grip is strong, and the scent of leather and smoke are comfortingly familiar. When he feels his father give him a few firm pats between his shoulder blades, he loosens his hold reluctantly, letting his arms fall to his sides as he steps back.

“Where is it?” is the first thing out of John’s mouth, and Dean feels the bubble of warmth that had been developing in his chest pop. He can barely see how Sam rolls his eyes behind their father.

“ _ It’s good to see you too, Dad. How was your trip?” _ he grinds out, crossing his arms. John’s brow knits. Seeing his own stubbornness reflected back at him, John sighs, relenting.

“ _ Dean _ .” He’s met with a raised eyebrow. “It was nothing. Had a small delivery, and the lead turned out to be another dead end.” Behind him, Sam gives Dean an “ _ I told you so _ ” face.

Having been given as much of an answer as he’s going to get, Dean sags. “I have it here,” he says, reaching for the leather purse in his pocket. John’s face immediately shifts to one of alarmed concern, eyes tracing the path that Dean’s hand makes.

“ _ Where’s the box?” _ he barks out. Dean bites the inside of his cheek, feeling the warmth of the pocket watch seep through the fabric — almost like it’s trying to reach out to him. His eyes flicker to Sammy before settling on his father’s, resolutely maintaining eye contact.

“It shattered,” Dean concedes, watching how his father’s expression shifts minutely. “I almost died, so you better be grateful that I—”

“My office.  _ Now _ ,” John interrupts sharply, silencing Dean with his harsh tone. It’s not like he has much of a choice, because a tight grip around his wrist drags him to the office anyhow, with Dean stumbling and wincing over his bad ankle but refusing to say anything about it. He only manages one glance at Sammy, and, though he gestures for him to follow, Sam already seems like his intentions are set on going into the office with them if he has to break down the door.

When they’re all in the office (Sam snuck in without their father paying too much mind, now hanging around like a fly on the wall), John lets Dean go, falling back to sit against his desk and pinch the bridge of his nose.

“You  _ broke _ . The box,” John processes, exasperated.

“No…” Dean says through gritted teeth. “It fell and splintered while I was trying to fight for my fucking  _ life _ .”

“ _ Bandits? _ I trained you better than th—”

“No,” Dean says slowly. He studies his father, waiting for his reaction. “Demons.”

John’s hand drops as his attention snaps to his son. No one in the room moves a muscle, both father and son maintaining their staring contest. He must accept the severity in Dean’s visage, because though his confusion only grows, blood drains from his cheeks.

“What makes you so sure that they were demons?” he asks, almost defensively.

Dean glances back at his brother before answering. “Well, the things had black eyes and an aversion to holy water… I think it’s a reasonable conclusion.”

Both brothers are rather taken aback when they see their father take in a stuttered breath, looking to the heavens as if for spiritual guidance. Dean can’t tell if it was the trip or simply the news he delivered, but his father looks weary. More so than usual.

“Tell me what happened,” he finally says, and it looks like he’s finally noticing how beaten up Dean is, judging by how his gaze flickers to the various bandages sticking out from underneath his clothing.

So Dean does as he’s told. Granted, it’s not quite in as much detail as he told Sammy, but he patiently answers any questions his father asks. He skims over his encounters with the White Bandit (to which an unreadable expression ghosts over John’s face, though he refrains from prying any further), and spends more time going in depth with every detail about the demons. It’s unnerving to see how little of this information seems to be new to his father.

When he finishes, Sam and Dean are further surprised when a genuine smile graces John’s features, a puff of laughter escaping his lips as he looks—unfocused—to the floor.

“What the  _ hell _ , Dad—?” Dean bristles, but John’s waving him off.

“It’s just… you remind me so much of Mary,” he reminisces, and all the fight drains out of Dean. Just thinking of her, John looks happier than he has in a long time. “Demons are a nasty bunch — I can barely handle one. Mary was so strong and clever; she’s the only person I could think of that would be able to get out of a situation like that with her life.”

Even the mere mention of his mother has Dean’s heart quivering,  _ but being compared to her like this? _ He feels like he’s sinking, rooted to the floorboards underneath his feet. Wave upon wave of emotion threatens to overpower him as he stands there, basking in the genuine praise. Some feeble part of him hopes— _ believes _ —that some part of his mother was somehow with him, holding his shoulder and guiding him, allowing him to follow in her footsteps.

“So you were both familiar with demons?” Sam inquires, snapping both out of their trance. John’s smile is weaker now, but it’s still present.

“When did you figure out we knew?”

“It clicked last night.”

John sighs. “I should’ve told you boys earlier. We didn’t want you growing up in that lifestyle, knowing that… knowing those  _ things _ were out there. You probably realize how much I’ve protected the outpost and the ranch by now, but I wanted you two to live as normal of a life as possible.”

“ _ By forcing Dean to raise me?” _ Sam scoffs, to which Dean shoots him a death glare.

“Did a demon kill Mom?” Dean draws his father’s attention to himself instead.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “She  _ was _ in a fire, but there was someone else with her. Two things, actually, and they weren’t human. By the time I got back to the building, I only saw one of them escaping, but I remember its face — I’ll never forget it.”

“And that’s what you’re looking for.”

“Exactly. It’s only gotten more elusive, but I’ll be deep in the bone yard before I stop searching for the damned thing.”

_ So… Mom and Dad hunted these things. _ Perhaps not that often, but they apparently knew their way around a bad box. Dean’s world is turning on its head, and snippets of memories are shifted and modified, being explained.

“Why was this in a weird box, then?” Dean asks, taking out the pocket watch again. John’s attention must have gotten sluggish, because his gaze is drawn to Dean slowly, his eyes widening only as he sees Dean reach for the watch from within the leather purse.

“ _ Dean, don’t—!” _ he shouts, surging forward to stop him, but Dean already has the golden watch in his palm, blinking back stupidly at his father. John is frozen in his place, eyes bugged at seeing the carelessness in which Dean holds the object.

“ _ Put it down _ ,” John continues, his voice a cautious growl. It’s terrifyingly steady, like it is when he needs to keep a calm head in a dangerous situation. Dean’s brow furrows before he turns his head to peer down at the pocket watch.

“Why?”

“It came in a curse box, did it not?”

“Yeah, that’s what Sammy said.”

“Are you  _ sure _ it’s not a fake?”

“Missouri seemed pretty sure.”

John eyes it skeptically, at war with what to believe. Dean (and probably Sam) have burning questions, but keep their mouths shut until John comes to a conclusion.

“It’s not…  _ burning _ you in any way?” John questions carefully. Though he’s not frozen in his lunge anymore, his posture is tense, ready to act quickly.

“It’s kinda warm but that’s about it.”

Frowning, John stares at it for a little longer. Finally, he takes a deep breath and steps forward, grabbing the pocket watch with his own hand.

The hot sizzle is the first thing that they can hear, followed immediately by a cry of agony and the heavy thunk to the ground. It’s only after that when they notice the sickening scent of burning flesh wafting through the air.

Both brothers are lunged forward, arms outstretched to help their father, but John is curling himself away from them, holding his wrist so tightly that his knuckles turn white. The hand that had contact with the pocket watch is blistering and a bright, angry red. Sam is out of the room in a second to search for a bowl of cool water.

“Dad…” Dean says. “What the  _ fuck _ was that?”

“ _ That _ , my boy…” John replies through his teeth, swallowing his pain, “was its myth.”

Sam returns, placing the bowl on their father’s desk. John hisses when the burned skin first touches the water, but he keeps it submerged, squeezing his eyes shut until he gets used to the sensation.

“What myth?” Dean persists. He glances at the unassuming watch by their feet, glinting in the daylight that filters throughout the room.

John takes a few controlled breaths before attempting to respond. “The legend—or what I could find of it—goes that there is a watch with the sun and twelve moons engraved in gold that possesses unimaginable power, but it always burns up the holder. From what I’ve read, no one actually knows what power it holds, but everyone who’s touched it has burned — just like me.”

The watch looks so innocent, with its chain pooled above where it lays on the wooden floorboard. Dean has felt its warmth, but never anything that blistered his skin like fire.

Tentatively, he steps towards it again, reaching out to touch it with the tip of a finger.

Just as always, the metal is warm under his skin.

When his fingers grasp to hold it in his palm again, it goes willingly, heating the palm of his hand no more than a perfect coffee would. Dean turns it over slowly, really taking a look at the engravings that coat its exterior. Tossing the watch to his other hand, he catches it easily in his palm.

“Why not me?” he murmurs after a while, feeling his kin trace his every movement in wonder.

“I can’t tell you. I didn’t find anything like this in the lore.”

Intrigued, Sam approaches him, studying the watch with a similar intensity he had last night. Dean lets him, now wary of the consequences joking around could possibly have.

Hesitantly, Sam reaches out the tip of his pinky finger and brushes it against the watch’s heavy golden chain.

And immediately leaps back with a shout.

Dean stares incredulously between the pocket watch in his palm and his brother, who has now joined their father in submerging his (less severe) burn in the water.  _ Why him? _

“Do you have ‘ _ unimaginable powers’ _ now, Dean?” Sam only half-teases.

Dean shakes his head. “I probably would’ve noticed on the way back, but nada.” Turning to look at his father, he continues. “Why were you looking for this, anyways?”

“When I went searching for your mother’s body, there was nothing left except for this, which was tossed onto the floor under some debris,” John explains. “I thought the metal was still hot from the fire, so I left to go find something to pick it up with, but when I came back, it was gone; it was only after a lot of digging that I found the lore behind it. I’ve been looking for it to get some sort of cluse as to what happened to your mother.”

“You think her killer used this?”

“I’m not sure yet. I found no trace of the thing she was fighting, either.”

“You’re just trying to find any clue as to what happened,” Sam says, oddly receptive to the concept when he was just chastising them for obsessing over Mary’s death last night.

John nods. “Now that you know about all of this, I should probably get you two boys as prepared as you’ll ever be… You’ll need anti-possessive brands—”

“ _ Anti-possession?” _ Dean repeats sharply.

“Those demons you fought, Dean, they weren’t just demons: there were actual people in there,” John says gravely. “They’re just piloting the vessel.”

Dean gulps. “I shot.  _ People _ . Multiple times.”

“They’re dead. Probably were walking meat sacks, at that point.”

Dean feels sick again. He takes one more look at the pocket watch in his hand before stuffing it back into his pocket.

“You should probably hold onto that too,” John continues, gesturing to the watch. “Safer in your hands for now. As for the future, salt as well as holy water works wonders in repelling those damned bastards, but I’ll teach you some sigils that can be used both to ward against and to trap them.”

“Can I borrow some of the books you have here?” Sam prompts, pointing his chin to the books he had claimed to read in secret. John’s smile is proud when he observes his younger son.

“You’ve read some of those, haven’t you? Feel free to brush up as much as you need — the more you know, the stronger you’ll be.”

While Sam converses with their father about what he knows and the resources he has available to offer, Dean shuffles around the office in his own brown study. When he toes at the rug, lifting its corner with the front of his boot, he sees worn paint covering the floorboards, hinting at the grand expanse of a sigil that covers the office.

It's almost infuriating that he and Sam hadn’t picked up on the notion before.

Then again, he doubts he would’ve believed it.

Taking his own turn in standing back, watching his kin speak, he studies how his brother’s expression remains serious, concentrating on every word out of their father’s mouth. Their father has definitely seen shit Dean probably can’t even imagine, but here’s Sam, wholly trusting in their father’s word. Just the thought has him beaming, looking down at his feet in a feeble attempt to suppress it.

Dean would die for them. He’d die for the entire ranch.

He just hopes it doesn’t have to come to that.


	7. Cattle Drive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are two songs featured in this chapter, both of which you can find in this [Spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0AWVSLEEwnPvFmVV6iO2a0?si=BL6_VEEJQxKqieXQCIDlAQ) (and the directly sung one on Youtube [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qmq-J7pYOdQ&ab_channel=ColterWall-Topic) if you do not have Spotify).
> 
> The reason I mention "Little Joe the Wrangler" (which you can find on Youtube [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=64N_gQjy9JE&ab_channel=finetunesCountry)) is because the original character in this chapter is based directly on the character in this folk tune. 
> 
> Also, heads up for the minor character death, if you need to prepare yourself for that kind of thing.

Bobby sends out the cattle drive to Ellsworth a couple of days later.

Ellsworth, because apparently Abilene isn’t as practical of a cattle town anymore — which is fair, because the drive to Ellsworth should only take two weeks as opposed to two and a half. The only downside is that they won’t be able to stop by Ellen’s saloon after they sell the herd.

Dean had a hard time convincing his family to let him go, but they conceded in the end. Bobby, of course, was adamant about Dean staying and recovering, but there was no way Dean was going to sit at home while everyone else went cowpunching, so he got away with it anyway and only got called a “thick-headed idjit” a few dozen times. Sam still seems skeptical, but Dean doesn’t even bother reassuring him anymore.

Speaking of Sam, Dean had actually tried talking his brother out of going too; after hearing about all the stuff that goes bump in the night that really does crawl around in the shadows (not to mention the fact that all those unusual thunderstorms are apparently demon-caused), he was hesitant to let Sammy outside of the safety the ranch offered. Of course, the bullheadedness must run in the family, because Sam also comes along for the ride anyhow (… after Dean made sure that he will have plenty of anti-demon protection on him at all times).

Currently, they’re just under halfway through the trip, just past Fort Dodge… or rather, _Dodge City_ , now. It isn’t much more than Stiler’s sod house (which Dean—as the standing auger of the drive—made sure to steer clear of; part of the reason their encounters with Stiler are—though brief—friendly is because they make sure their herd doesn’t impose on Stiler’s ranch) and a bar tent, but apparently it’s official. Stiler had even boasted over drink that the railroad would be there too come fall — the fundamental heart of an upcoming and successful cattle town. Dean had taken note to inform Bobby once they got back to their own ranch.

Dean’s doing one more round around the bed ground, double-checking that nothing is amiss. Luckily, it seems that all the beeves are settled down for the night, aimlessly gnawing on reeds if not completely still. Nonetheless, thirty-five hundred heads is a hefty stock, so at a leisurely walk on Impala’s behalf, it takes a while to head back to the camp, leaving Pay-ati and Henrikson out for the first watch.

Dismounting by the fire, he leads Impala to the rest of the horses to remove her saddle for the night. He speaks with her quietly as he always does, murmuring ambiently as he pets her rump and heaves the saddle to the side. She nuzzles his chest firmly before turning to the much more appealing grass at her hooves.

Garth already has a bowl of beans and bacon ready and waiting for him; he’s not the bean master yet, but ever since Little Joe took his job as the wrangler, he’s been following Rufus—their official cook—around in an effort to apprentice under him. Rufus—who’s an old friend of Bobby’s—is a cranky old bastard, but _does_ end up showing Garth the ropes, despite how everyone else in the drive saw Garth’s desperation as groveling and being a suck-up… though, it’s mainly because of how often Rufus complains about being too old to be going on cattle drives anymore that he acquiesces. At the moment, Rufus is content to let Garth do all the grunt work while he lays against a wheel of the chuckwagon, playing on his old blues harmonica.

With his meal in hand, a roll dunked into the warm liquid, Dean sets out to find his brother on the other side of the campfire. On the opposite side of the fire from the bed ground, Dean can hear the Mexicans’ loud chatter, already well into their gut warmer.

In the dim firelight, he sees Jesús (Jessie) pause in his laughter, catching Dean out of the corner of his eye. Dean freezes like an unsuspecting deer caught in the lantern light. Jessie’s work-earned figure is slouched against a log, relaxed by the booze running through his system, and an appealing amount of buttons are undone on his shirt, barely hinting at the dark hair Dean knows spreads wild across his chest. Grinning with his teeth showing, shining in the firelight, Jessie tips his head to the side—away from the crowd, away from the herd—beckoning Dean with an unspoken question. Dean’s heart trips over itself.

Clearing his throat, he shakes his head, shaking himself from the weird state of mind he had let himself fall into. Jessie merely shrugs, raising his eyebrows and pressing his lips together as if to say that Dean’s missing out, before turning back to laugh at something Pepe said.

Dean exhales. Were it any other time, he might’ve considered the offer, but right now, he has too many other things on his mind… and Dean doesn’t want to risk thinking too hard about the nature of their… _relationship_ … when he’s ignored it this long.

Sam is propped up against a large boulder, using the firelight to read the textbook in his hands; his meal is by his side, half-forgotten. Dean sits on his other side, digging into his own meal.

“Garth’s getting better,” he exclaims with a mouthful of beans and bacon. Sam snorts without taking his eyes off his literature. Dean rips away some crust from his roll with his teeth. “What’s tonight’s big baddie?”

“Demons.”

Dean scrunches his face. “Still?”

“There’s a lot to learn.”

Dean leans over so he can peer at the page his brother has open. “ _Bible stories?_ The hell are you gonna find there?”

“History, Dean,” Sam explains, closing the book at last. He takes his bowl and continues eating. “A lot of those demons probably existed and probably still do, and sometimes you can even get information based on how other people interact with them.”

“Just read the damn demon manuals Dad gave us: why waste your time with _this?_ The Bible already has enough of this storytelling.”

“You’ve _read?_ The _Bible?_ ”

He shrugs. “Yeah.” Sam gives him an incredulous look. “ _What?_ I got bored. Point is, we’ve probably already read enough about demons—”

“You were _lucky_ last time, Dean… you heard Dad. We need to be as prepared as possible.”

“Yeah, but… what about anything else? He mentioned ghosts, didn’t he? I bet holy water’s gonna do jack shit for those translucent fuckers.”

Sam purses his lips. “We haven’t seen any proof of—”

“He said he and Mom used to hunt them too, isn’t that enough?” Dean says. “And anyways, if demons exist, doesn’t it make more sense that ghosts exist too? If I hadn’t seen those black-eyed bad eggs, I would’ve believed in ghosts over demons any day.”

Opening his mouth and then pressing his lips together once the point processes, Sam simpers, mockingly apologetic. “Dean… I already told you I don’t have anything else on the Bandit.”

Dean bristles. “ _I never asked—!”_ He takes a deep breath, ignoring how his brother is visibly restraining his laugh. “Demons are tough shit, but it’ll suck ass if we know what a demon’s _thoughts and dreams_ are but still get dragged through the mud by something _not-demon._ ”

Sam raises his brow pointedly. “ _Like…?”_

“Whose demons are we talkin’ about now?” Charlie barges in, thank the heavens. Dean shoots his brother a dirty look before shifting to allow his friend some space.

Unfortunately, Sam cuts to the chase first. “Dean’s hots for the White Bandit.”

“ _Hey—!”_ Dean barks out, but it’s already too late, with Charlie laughing loudly and leaning against his shoulder. He hits his brother over the head, but Sam only laughs harder. “ _I’m no Mary—!”_

“Dark and mysterious, I’d beg you as the type,” Charlie wheezes. Dean shoves her so that she almost spills her own bait.

“He’s been pestering non-stop about the guy,” Sam elaborates.

“No I haven’t—” Dean grumbles in vain. The others easily ignore him.

“About the White Bandit?” Charlie asks. She already knows of Dean’s brief meeting with the legend (after the fire: both brothers avoided telling of the demons, and by association, Dean’s second sighting of his savior), being the persistent being that she is from having wheedled it out of them as soon as she could, but only after a few questions about the Bandit himself, she had left it at that. “I mean, he’s a legend for a _reason_.”

“Yeah, but… he’s been around for so long now,” Dean says. “ _Someone’s_ gotta know somethin’ about him.”

Charlie raises an eyebrow at him. “I’ll appreciate a casual interest, but… what good’ll _this_ do?” Sam puffs out a small laugh while Dean leans his head back, gazing blearily up at the constellations spread out before them.

“ _It’s none of y’all’s business—”_ he barks out of reflex but stops when he sees the look that both his friend and brother are giving him out of the corner of his eye. “I don’t know,” he admits, refusing to look at either of them. “He saved me from the bone yard _, and I couldn’t even give him my gratitude?”_

“Since when do _you_ thank anybody?” Sam says, at the same time Charlie smugly goes: “What kind of ‘ _gratitude’_ did you have in mind?” Dean has been blessed with two hands, which he uses to attack both of his company.

“You guys are _assholes_. I just have a lot of unanswered questions.” Dean doesn’t mention that he can’t stop wondering why the Desert Angel took so much care of him while blatantly avoiding everyone else.

“I mean, we have the song,” Charlie hums. “Jo—”

Dean, petty and childish as he is, pokes at her. “ _Hm? Jo? What about her? What about her, Charlie, hm?_ ” Disgruntled, Charlie slaps him away.

“ _Jo_ ,” she moves along, “sings it a lot.”

_“Oh, does she now?”_

“Yeah, Charlie… I think Dean’s more interested in hearing about Jo than the Bandit,” Sam cuts in, effectively shutting up his brother. Dean glares at him, but bites back anything that would only dig his grave deeper.

Charlie looks surprised. “You don’t know it?”

Dean huffs. “My memory’s not _that_ stellar, thank you very much.”

“Didn’t take you very long to memorize the exorcism,” Sam mutters under his breath.

“ _Hey!_ Aw, _c’mon_ … I’ve only heard the song before this whole shitshow happened.”

“I’ll tell you for a penny.”

“ _Charlie—_ ”

“Fine, fine,” she relents. Though she doesn’t put any actual effort into singing, her voice cadences with the words, as if pulling the lyrics from their melody still leaves threads of musicality behind:

_“Beware the desert in the night,_   
_Where if you find yourself alone,_   
_Then pray to God you haven’t tread_   
_Where the White Bandit tends to roam.”_

_“Tends to?”_ Dean says. “Unless New Mexico was a business trip away from Kansas, I don’t think that’s right.”

“Don’t take songs too literally, Dean,” Sam criticizes. “It probably refers to the entire desert.”

“The entire desert is a _bit large_ for one man to roam.”

“You’ve said it yourself, that he’s more myth than man.”

Dean looks to his friend for a second opinion, but Charlie simply shrugs.

“Sounds like every myth I’ve ever heard of: powerful, mysterious, and ruthless.”

Dean bites his tongue to stop himself from flinching at the last description.

_“Deep from the shadows of the night,_   
_The desert angel will descend._   
_O God, why have you forsaken me,_   
_To rest with this cruel end?_

“More like a second chance, for you, Dean,” Charlie adds, to which Dean gives her a strained smile.

_“O, humble is my weary trade,_   
_And in my home a lover waits._   
_Dishonest is the man who cries_   
_For reason of his doomed fates!”_

“I wonder who wrote this,” Sam murmurs, “because there is some truth to the legend, but it makes me wonder how they lived to tell the tale.”

“You know,” Charlie says, “I’ve always thought… Isn’t the narrator admitting that he’s guilty? Not of anything in particular but… even though he’s pleading innocence—or at least asking for pity—he’s saying that he deserves it.”

“Yeah, well… I’m no saint,” Dean mumbles, momentarily shifting his attention to his meal again.

Charlie frowns. “You’re a good man, Dean; I just think you’re the only one who doesn’t believe that.”

“Pride is a deadly sin,” he jokes weakly, but he can tell both Charlie and Sam can see through him.

_“He rides atop a phantom horse,_   
_Flying faster in my stead._   
_My desp’rate hope the Bandit steals,_   
_White while I lay bathed in red.”_

“Dominant white Arabian, was my best guess,” Dean says. “Taller than your usual Arabian, though.”

“You weren’t chased by him, were you?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. Didn’t _steal_ anything from me either, not even my hope. Fast as the wind, though. Like he doesn’t weigh a feather.”

“Desert Angel…” Sam muses. “Because he’s like an Angel of Death, huh.”

Dean frowns. “Oh, I thought…” _that it’s because it looked like he drifted down on wings_ , Dean leaves unsaid. Shaking himself, he turns to Charlie. “Aren’t there more verses?”

“Yeah, but… they make even less sense: kinda sound like balderdash.”

“Try me.”

_“They say there’s one who’s by his side,_   
_In time, they’ll be each o’ers demise._   
_The Righteous Man will laugh at death,_   
_But the angel never dies._

_In time, the Righteous Man shall fall,_   
_And out of flames he shall arise;_   
_Only by him can suns be reigned,_   
_For a mortal never dies.”_

No one speaks up after Charlie finishes. They listen to Rufus’s harmonica wheeze, the logs in the fire crackle, and a lazy round of laughter from the Mexicans.

_But the angel never dies._

Dean hates just how plausible immortality has become over the past few days.

“Who do you thin the ‘ _Righteous Man’_ is?” Charlie ponders aloud first. “Dean… was he with anyone? Or did he ever mention anyone else?”

“No…” Something of unknown origin twists in his stomach. “Never. By the look of it, I’d say he’s been alone for a long time.”

“Metaphor for something?”

“Maybe it doesn’t mean anything,” Sam brings up. “Most songs are pulled out of people’s asses, I’m surprised this one turned out accurate so far.”

“Yeah, but,” Dean counters, oddly defensive, “we believed the first bit just as much as those last verses before all this shit happened… what makes you think this can’t be true too?”

Sam smiles gently at him, and it makes Dean want to punch something. “Stories are exaggerated, Dean. We gotta take it with a grain of salt.”

“I wonder if he’s doing it for revenge,” Charlie muses, surprising the brothers out of their argument. She’s staring at the fire as she speaks, the flame dancing in her eyes reminiscent of her boyish, burnt-red hair. “I once heard somewhere that he lost someone, long ago.”

“Lost someone?” Dean asked, clearing his throat when he realized his voice was barely above a whisper.

“The few times I’ve heard it repeated, it’s been romanticized, but… I think he lost family. Someone close to him.” She blinks, turning back to the brothers with a feeble grin. “I mean, why else would he be the righteous protector of the desert? It’s like what you said when you first told me about him, Dean: he must have _some_ kind of motive. What would _you_ do if you lost someone like that?”

What would Dean do if something took Sam from him, right in front of his face?

What has his father been doing for the past three decades?

Glancing back to his brother, Dean can see that Sam’s reached a similar sort of conclusion. Neither feel the need to verbalize it.

The metal of Charlie’s spoon clinks against the edge of her bowl: she’s decided to go back to eating. Sam, also eager for the alteration in conversation, asks Charlie about any other mythical songs she might happen to know. Dean remains silent for the time being, already deciding that it’s a good time to reach for his flask of firewater.

Who did the White Bandit lose?

* * *

They’re only about two days out from Ellsworth, which is a home run for everybody. Dean’s only seen one new barbed wire fence set up along their route, which, as worrying as it is for future drives, doesn’t cause much of a diversion.

Dean draws the short straw for the night shift that night. It’s not the night shift he minds — in fact, he quite enjoys the space it gives him, the peace of mind. No, it’s the fact that Little Joe had to go and draw the other straw.

Dean worries about Little Joe. He knows he shouldn’t, with all that the kid’s proved, but he can’t help it. What’s worse is that Sam says he doesn’t express it properly (Sam being the one to point out that he’s worried about the kid in the first place), having been told so after he once complained that the kid didn’t like him. _‘Of course he doesn’t,’_ Sam had said, _‘when all you do is snap at him and try to keep him from going on jobs.’_ Dean had pouted and stoutly ignored him, continuing to try and convince Bobby to keep the kid on barn duty, but all to no avail.

Little Joe was one of the strays that wandered into the Singer Ranch, just a year ago last April; the ranch gets a lot of strays, including Charlie and the occasional chuck-line rider that stumbles into their yard.

Joe isn’t actually an orphan like Charlie or some of the other cowboys they get through the ranch: his sob story went something like his Pa had married twice, and his new Ma whipped him every day or two, so he saddled up on his old Texas pony and rode up to Kansas for work. Bobby took easy pity on him, teaching him how to wrangle horses and herd cattle for the next upcoming drive. He’s a hard worder, Dean’ll give him that, but he deserves the rest of his childhood.

The kid, to be fair, also looks weary about their predicament, staring down at the short straw in his hand with thinly veiled dismay.

“Buck up, kid,” Dean tells him, ruffling his hair. “Only a few hours ‘til midnight, and then we go wake Sammy and Garth.” Little Joe grumbles at the physical contact, whacking Dean’s hand away.

After his meal is finished, Dean swings himself up onto Impala, leading them to go relieve Tito of his watch from the northeast of the herd. The cattle are still, content with the lazy grazing they have at their disposal and resting off the digestion. Smiling, Dean begins to whistle aimlessly.

There’s only a few clouds in the sky, obscuring the view of a few constellations, but there’s just enough moonlight that Dean can see the tiny figure of Joe in the distance get up and ride out to his post on the opposite side of the herd, freeing Luis for supper and bed. He ambles along the outskirts of the bed ground, lingering for moments at a time.

The desert night is cool on Dean’s face, but the bristles of a growing beard keep him warm, along with the insulation with which his duster provides. Watching the campfire in the distance, away from the herd, dimmed to a couple crackling logs, Dean begins to sing:

_“Oh say, little dogies, why don’t you lay down?_   
_You’ve wandered and trampled all over the ground:_   
_Lay down, little dogies, lay down.”_

Every cowboy has their own method of keeping the sleeping beeves calm, lulling them and letting them grow accustomed to noise so that something as simple as dismounting a horse won’t startle them and cause them to stampede. Rufus always brings out his old blues harmonica, and many of the cowboys that can’t sing will usually just whistle.

_“I’ve cross-herded, circle-herded, trail-herded too,_   
_But to keep you together, that’s what I can’t do:_   
_Bunch up, little dogies, bunch up.”_

Dean, of course, learned to sing. While he _did_ proclaim that he had a terrible memory regarding the White Bandit legend with Charlie and Sam, his repertoire came from hearing the older cowhands sing the same songs over and over again, and, once concentrating on actually learning them, Dean absorbed them as his own. There _was_ the occasion that he’d accidentally modify phrases in forgetting the original words (he was by no means a poet — rare was the time he’d create his own work), but the collection of melodies that are stowed away in his head is relatively impressive.

_“My horse is leg-weary, and I’m awful tired,_   
_But if I let you get away, I’m sure to get fired:_   
_Bunch up, little dogies, bunch up.”_

A harsher gust of wind pushes Dean back towards the herd. Mildly startled, he turns to look northward, barely cognizant of the pitch darkness looming over the horizon. The moon still provides plenty of light across the plains, but not for long, if Dean’s bad feeling is right about anything. Seeing the herd become slightly restless at the wind that’s now picking up, he whistles just a bit louder than before. _He should probably wake the other cowhands._

With Impala trotting along the edge of the herd, Dean muttering words of comfort to her tensed disposition, they’re barely across the bed ground when the first rumble of thunder grumbles in the distance. The cattle are beginning to stir at the noise and the promise of a storm in the air. Barely visible, Dean can see Little Joe on his horse, milling about like there’s nothing to worry about, and Dean cusses under his breath.

The rain begins just as the light from the moon is beginning to wane. Dean hopes that it will be enough to wake the cowhands, but with how far into the drive they’ve come, he knows that exhaustion can let them sleep through most. He chirks Impala to a canter.

Dean’s still far off from the camp when the first real crack of thunder cuts through the air, barely introduced by a sharp flash of light that illuminate the entire desert for merely a second. It takes him another few seconds to realize that what he’s hearing is not residual thunder but the thundering of hooves upon the ground.

 _Stampede_.

Heart fluttering in his chest, Dean feels it quicken, steady but shaking his entire being with its force, edging him towards a fight or flight response. Taking a deep breath, he revels in the sensation, scanning the stampeding herd within milliseconds as a calm settles over his mind.

Dean only flips his duster hood on in afterthought, barely registering how soaked he has already become. The small pistol filled with blanks is already in his hand, and he doesn’t even think as he points it to the sky and shoots, hoping the whip-like _crack_ will serve to both wake his colleagues and divert the cattle from stampeding too far south.

Turning around and bringing Impala to a gallop, Dean hurries to where he came from and the direction the cattle are seeming to take. _Where the fuck are the other shots?_ There should’ve been at least one by now, ushering the cattle in a different direction. _Who the hell’s not doing their job?_

Dean’s stomach drops.

 _Joe_.

Pulse now rabbiting, he leans forward, pushing Impala as fast as she can ride in the direction Joe is supposedly stationed. He’s lucky that Impala’s the fast horse he knows, in addition to the fact the cattle are slowed by the weight that they have maintained over the course of the entire drive (with the careful calculation of distance Dean has made sure to follow exactly).

With the harshness of the winds and the lightning crackling through the sky, there’s luckily quite a bit of rain the sky has to offer; while the ground becomes slick and Dean watches as Impala’s hoof occasionally slips before she regains her footing, the heavy rain at least diminishes the chance of another prairie fire. _God knows that the desert needs the water_.

Another flash of lightning illuminates the plain, and Dean feels a brief wave of relief wash over him as he sees Little Joe up ahead on Old Blue Rocket, waving his arms and hollering in a meager effort to herd the stampede. _Kid must’ve fumbled his pistol._

Barely rounding the herd and siding beside Joe, he pulls back the hammer of his own pistol and shoots another blank, diverting the cattle northeastwards.

“Useless without a pistol,” Dean shouts over the cacophony, barely discernible despite the fact he’s right next to the boy. “Go find a spare in the wagon.” Joe nods, immediately taking off in the opposite direction the cattle are heading towards. _Smart kid._

Not wasting a moment longer, Dean pushes Impala as hard as he can to the lead of the herd. He can feel her undercurrent of trepidation, how she resists slightly under her reins, how she tenses, but Dean’s got her well trained and could lead her through the gates of hell if he so pleased.

The hammer of the pistol clicks the barrel into place, and he rushes ahead, just to the south of the stampede and… _crack_ , the stampede startles and turns fully north. Though it’s nowhere near finished, Dean’s confidence swells slightly at the realization that he’s got this under control, that this is something they can still handle without casualties. He’s only dealt with a few stampedes before in his lifetime, but keeping the herd running in circles is only possible with all hands on deck.

Another—worrying close—clap of thunder radiates from the north, doing Dean’s job for him: the cattle turn yet again, heading towards the camp. _Oh fuck, the camp_. As fast as Dean can cut dirt, with how quick the stampede was turning, he doubts he can get to the campgrounds in time.

And then there’s another shot of a pistol, and Dean’s confidence is fully restored once again. Furthest from the camp and closes to him, Dean can barely make out the tall figure of his brother on his favored horse, holding his six-shooter in the air. Then there’s more shots from the camp, diverting the stampede south once again. Grateful for the assistance at last, Dean turns tail, heading for the furthest eastern post of the bed ground.

At first, there’s a bit of time before the next pistol shot is heard, with the cattle stampeding south where the lagging cowboys have yet to cover. After that, they gain somewhat of a rhythm, with gunshots being passed around the circling beeves, only interrupted by the occasional (and now fading) thunder that disrupts the control very slightly. It feels like forever before the gunshots are scattered, the cattle growing weary in their frenzy, and the remaining trickle of raindrops begin to ebb away. Dean works well under the panic, his eyes alight and drinking in everything before him like a predator. He moves swiftly and silently, monitoring the calming cattle with the ease he uses to clean his guns.

At long last, the cattle have tired themselves out, and the remaining thunder is nothing but a rumble in the distance. Dean is too buzzed to sing or even whistle, but his shoulders sag the instant he hears the melancholy notes from Rufus’s old harmonica.

Stubborn as he is, Dean lingers by the bed grounds, watching how some of the beeves decide to sit instead. When he hears someone on a horse approach him, he decides to pay them no mind.

“Rufus and Pay-ati are taking this shift,” Sam tells him softly. Dean hums in acknowledgement. “C’mon: you need rest.”

“I could stay out here all night.”

“I know. But you’re the auger of this drive: we need you back to… to assess any damages.”

Dean spares a glance towards him. He can see his brother with fair clarity, which causes him to look up at the night sky. The moon is visible once again, though shaded with some smaller clouds; it still has not risen above their heads.

“My shift ain’t over yet,” he says.

“ _Dean_.”

Sighing, he relents, chirking and kicking Impala’s side to move ahead of his brother.

Back at the camp, he moves to remove Impala’s saddle immediately, taking pity on the stress she surely endured during the stampede. Scratching at her neck, behind her ears, and down her forehead, he lets her shove her face against his chest while he hums to her, soft and comforting. He feels her sigh before she shakes herself, nosing at the slick grasses at their feet. Dean takes that as his cue to leave.

Around the campfire (which Garth is currently trying to revive with the dry firewood from the chuckwagon), everyone sits and chatters as if nothing had even happened.

“Aight, so…” Dean starts off, sauntering into the ring of conversation, “Sunny and the old geezer are out with the herd now… we missin’ anyone?” While everyone glances around the circle, Dean does a mental headcount: _Garth by the fire, Sammy by his side, Charlie, Henrikson, Jessie, Pepe, Tito, Luís…_

Dean’s stomach sinks.

 _Joe_.

“Has anyone seen Little Joe?” he asks, carefully controlling his voice. “I sent him back for an extra pistol.”

Garth shakes his head. “Never came ‘round here. I thought he was out with all y’all.”

Dean pulse skyrockets again. “Anyone?” He glances desperately between all the blank faces in front of him. “ _Anyone?_ ”

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam murmurs, grabbing his sleeve. Dean yanks himself out of his brother’s grasp before he thinks better of it.

“’Fraid not,” Henrikson finally replies, backed up by nods from the others. Dean’s throat feels like it’s closing up.

“I, uh…” He clears his throat. “I see. Um. Glad to see y’all are fine. That’s… that’s good…” he trails off, suddenly wishing he isn’t at the center of attention. He gives them a strained smile. “Can’t do nuthin’ else ‘till the morning comes, so, uh… try to get some shut eye. We’ll head out later tomorrow.” And with that, he turns and leaves.

Sam finds him propped up behind a boulder, hidden from the campfire but with the bed ground spread out before him. The ground is muddy under his duster, causing him to slide slowly down the slight incline, but he doesn’t say anything of it. Sighing, Sam crouches beside him.

“He could just be knocked out… possibly even lost,” Sam tries in vain to comfort his brother. Dean doesn’t even make a sound. “Like you said… we just have to wait until morning.”

“It’s all my fault,” Dean murmurs, staring out at the sleeping cattle like he can’t see a damn thing. “ _It’s all my damn fault.”_

“It’s not your—”

“No,” he whispers, somehow interrupting his brother without the punch he usually has. He’s drooped over his figure, exhaustion seeping from his very bones. “I’m the auger of this drive, and we were put on night shift together. I shoulda done somethin’.”

“Dean.”

“He’s just a kid, Sammy. A _kid_. He never shoulda been out here in the first place.”

“If you wanna put the blame on someone, then put the blame on _us_ , Dean. For letting him come along.”

“No… _no_. It’s my fault for not trying hard enough.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam repeats, exasperated. “Whatever you do, don’t do anything stupid. Don’t go looking for him now.”

“Go to sleep, Sammy.”

“Dean, I’m serious. You won’t find anything in the dark like this. We can’t have you drown yourself for nothin’,” he jokes weakly, but it flies over Dean’s head.

“Sammy, your shift is soon. _Go to sleep._ ”

Sam sighs. “At least come back and tend the fire for us. Everyone has probably passed out by now.”

When Dean still doesn’t answer, Sam gets up, knees popping, and heads back to the camp. Dean reaches for another swig of his firewater, frustrated at how it barely burns anymore as it trickles down his throat. He ends up standing a few minutes later, heading over to the weakening fire.

Dean doesn’t process that time is passing. He barely notices when Sam and Garth leave, when Pay-ati and Rufus roll into their own hen skins before promptly passing out. He sits there, watching the fire as his mind feels hollow and empty. The fire burns low, and he keeps the flame steady, tossing in another log that Little Joe had rustled up earlier in the day when the warmth threatens to disappear. He watches as the new logs catch alight, sap crackling and popping as wood curls in on itself before it crumbles into ash. If Dean ever thinks about it too hard, he takes another drink, pushing down the wobbly emotions that threaten to burst and wallowing in the depression that envelops his head.

Though Dean misses how the sky is painted with the first colors of dawn, he lets the fire die away as more light filters over the horizon, casting a shine over the still-damp desert. When there’s only a few embers left in the firepit and Dean can see each of the cowhands sleeping with perfect clarity, he rises, drifting like a lost phantom to his horse. Impala seems to be in good enough spirits for having just been woken up, but Dean doesn’t even bother saddling her up, swinging up bareback before ushering her to the bed ground.

In the distance, he can see Sam and Garth begin to return to camp, lazily acknowledging Dean’s intentions to take over the watch for now. Paying them no mind, he begins to weave amongst the still-sleeping or simply bleary cattle, eyes scanning the ground with carefully controlled precision.

There aren’t too many casualties. With the thirty-five hundred heads they have in their stock, a dozen trampled cattle is not too much of a sweat (for the severity of the storm they encountered — Dean still felt a pang in his chest every time he counted another). If anything, they can probably salvage one of the fallen beeves, crudely butchering some of the meat for the rest of the drive. Beef stew sound like heaven right about now.

South of the bed ground, Dean finds a washout sliding into some shrubs. Garth must’ve been too tired to notice it, and Sammy was posted on the other side of the herd, but the figures at the bottom are none too difficult to discern.

Old Blue Rocket was an old horse. His joints creaked and his lope was slower than the rest, but he was a good horse. He led a good life.

Pity his rider underneath his torso did not garner the same fortune.

Void of all emotion, Dean dismounts, sliding down into the ditch. Both are cold to the touch, soaked from the rain of last night. He pats Old Blue’s rump, murmuring a few short prayers for the creature. It takes some effort, but he heaves the old horse out of the way, pulling Joe from the wreckage. The kid’s eyes remain half-open and glassy, so Dean moves to shut them first and foremost, a promise that he’ll at least find rest in death.

It takes even more effort to climb out of the washout: Dean eventually decides to go around, finding footing where there’s less of a steep slope. He holds Little Joe gently in his arms, like the kid is some overgrown child, sleeping with his head tucked into Dean’s chest. Dean pretends not to notice the limpness in his limbs and the awkward angle of others, the blood-smeared gashes and the purple bruises that smatter across his skin from underneath his rain slicker. He holds him close, holds him dearly, as he walks back to the camp, Impala in tow.

When he’s near enough to camp once again, he can see the other cowhands scramble around, some coming to meet him halfway, some solemnly watching him pass. He refuses any help he’s offered, but he’s grateful when he sees his brother read his mind, rushing to the chuckwagon to retrieve the kid’s hen skins. Laying them out on the ground, Dean approaches without a word, laying the boy down gently onto his bedding.

“Old Blue is in a washout to the south of the herd,” he starts ordering, because that’s what he can do best right now. “I need at least two of you to collect the kid’s things and bury the poor animal. Cattle casualties are only at a dozen… I need someone to find one of the casualties and do your best butcher so we can use it for the remaining meals. At least three on herd duty, the beeves are wakin’.”

Dean goes to find a shovel from the chuckwagon. Not too far from the camp, there’s a spot just beside the trail that overlooks the prairie where an old oak tree stands, isolated from most else. Dean makes his way over to where the tree’s leaves shade, digging into the soft mud at her roots. It doesn’t take too long for Sam and Charlie to come join him, digging the grave in silence.

Agreeing that the hole is deep enough, Dean heaves himself out, dropping his shovel and making his way back to the camp. Almost all the shoot is sitting there, waiting, so Dean goes to carry Little Joe again, holding the boy with a tenderness he surely didn’t experience since was a mere babe. Sam grabs the hen skin and they all make their way back to the oak tree in mournful procession.

No one cries. Even if Dean wanted to, he doesn’t think he could. He’s the one who steps into the grave, laying the hen skin out and carefully placing Little Joe inside, tucking him in so that he will be comfortable. Crouched by his side, unable to leave just yet, Dean brushes the muddied hair from the kid’s face, ruffling the dirty strands like he did before all of this happened.

“Dean,” his brother whispers, and Dean nods, gulping. He hops out of the grave in one jump, getting to his feet in a mindless reflex.

Luís says a few words and a few prayers, giving the best service to the poor kid that he can offer. They bow their heads and remove their hats, barely listening to the words as they mull in their own thoughts. Dean is late with his amen, cuing him to take up his shovel again and bury the kid. _Funny how it’s easier to bury him away than it is to dig his grave._ When they’re left with a mound of overturned dirt in front of them, Rufus sticks a wooden cross bound in rope he carved just earlier into the soil, patting the ground around it to secure its place.

“Did you sleep at all last night?” Sam asks him after, when they’re back at the camp and packing everything up. Dean shakes his head. “You should at least sleep in the chuckwagon for the first few miles. We need you functioning.” Dean doesn’t respond, but he’s too tired to argue. He might not sleep, but he has to remain the responsible one as the auger of the drive.

Charlie tries to distract him with idle chatter, not expecting him to say anything in return. He offers her one weak smile, but he knows it doesn’t reach his eyes. When she tries to coerce him into having breakfast, he pushes it away, finally accepting only a few sips of water before she gives up.

Dean _does_ end up sleeping in the chuckwagon when they hit the trail again, and if he sleeps through lunchtime, then no one has the heart to wake him.


	8. Ellsworth

Dean remains inattentive for the remainder of the drive. Thankfully, however, the business aspect of the job provides a well-needed distraction when they finally reach the  _ Kansas Pacific _ stockyards in Ellsworth, so Dean focuses entirely on dealing with and charming the yard manager despite his dwindling energy.

Of course, the selling of their livestock is an all-day event: though they don’t have to worry about dividing the beeves up for packing plants or the local market and for loading them onto railcars for shipping, it takes a while nevertheless for them to cut and load all thirty-five hundred heads of cattle into the pens. Once that ordeal is finished, Dean takes their baseline pay and divvies it up between the cowhands, making sure their labor is compensated for in addition to setting aside a decent sum for the ranch itself.

When everything is said and done, he feels the last of his energy leave him in an exhale.

“We were thinkin’ of ridin’ up to Abilene to stop by Ellen’s before heading back,” Sam tells him as they bring their horses into the livery, paying for the extras Garth wrangled for the remainder of the cattle drive. “This is the first time we didn’t drive all the way up, and it’s been so long since Bobby and Jo—”

“Give her my love,” Dean interrupts, already struggling to listen — his attention keeps waning in and out of focus.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Your invitation was implied.”

“I’m not going. I’m gonna head back early.”

_ “What?” _ Sam pouts. “Dean, you need some rest. At least—”

Dean shakes his head. “No:  _ go. _ Don’t stay behind just because I am. I need someone to pick up the auction bonus, anyways.” He double-checks that everything he needs is in his coat before (begrudgingly) letting Impala and his saddlebags be taken by the stable boy.

His brother furrows his brow in concern. “Pick up…  _ How soon are you leaving? _ You’re not even fully recovered—”

“I’m  _ fine,” _ he bites back. “I don’t even notice the ankle anymore. I’ll leave in the morning.”

“Dean…”

“I  _ said _ I’m fine. I just… I just need some time to myself, okay?” He can’t help but squirm under the look Sam is giving him.

Before Sammy can protest further, however, Charlie ambles up to them, cluelessly beaming. “Whaddya say we scope out for a cheap hotel before hitting the bodega?” Her voice is pitched lower now: she passes as a young man to conceal her identity and treads with more care when in town. Especially in someplace like Ellsworth—having a reputation of being the wickedest cattle town in the West—it is essential for Charlie to disguise herself.

“Go on ahead without me,” Dean says.

Charlie frowns. “Everything good…?”

“I just need to go think.”

“But—”

He waves her and his brother off. “It’s been a long day and I need a drink, maybe a good fuck.”

“If you need any—”

“I can take care of myself.”

“You better find us at least, before you take off,” Sam warns, and Charlie glances betweenthem, connecting the dots herself.

“I’ll try to.”

Stepping forward, he ruffles Charlie’s hair and pulls her into a tight hug. Though it’s brief, her arms wrap around him like a lasso, and just feeling how she burrows into the crook of his neck has him releasing some of the tension in his shoulders with the breath of a sigh. He presses a kiss into her hair before letting go, unwinding his arms from her smaller frame. When he hugs his brother, it’s a more solid affair, where his arms are equally as firm but his figure offers the support Dean resentfully craves.

Backing away, he does his best to offer them a smile despite knowing that it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Take care of yourselves. I wanna see you both in one piece back at the ranch.”

“Don’t get shot,” Sammy tells him.

“I’ll try not to,” he says, then turns around and leaves.

Dusk has already enveloped the cattle town, but Ellsworth bustles with life, filled with cowboys looking to get their fill on booze and prostitutes. Flickering lights already illuminate every building, pouring out from any window or door each has to offer. Dean sticks to the wide berth of the dirt road, weaving between the few horses and carriages that are still out.

The nearest saloon is easy to find with all the noise that emanates from within. It’s not the busiest Dean has seen, but he still has to squeeze past some leaving patrons.

“Double of any deadshot you’ve got,” Dean tells the bar dog, leaning on his elbows over the polished wood bar top.

“Got sumthin’ to disremember?” the bar dog asks around a cigar. He grabs a bottle of what looks like reverent whiskey and pours Dean’s drink, sliding it over. Dean catches it easily, humming in thought.

“Somethin’ like that.”

He takes a whiff of the dark amber liquid, and when he finds the alcohol is prevalent enough to water his eyes, he huffs with satisfaction. Lifting the glass and eyeing it warily, he tips his head back and slams most of it down, cringing as he feels it bite back as it slides down his throat. He shakes his head like a wet dog before emptying the last few drops in his glass. The bartender raises his eyebrows.

“Everythin’ alright, sonny?”

“Once I’m proper shot in the neck, I’ll be right as rain.”

“In that case, need a refill?”

Dean’s gaze drifts over to the boodle in the room through the smoke-filled haze, walling in what’s probably a faro or poker game. Though a self-deprecating part of himself wants to wallow in his misery, sit alone in a corner as he gets absolutely soaked, another part wants to give into his curiosity and allow himself to be distracted.

“Got any stingo left?” he finally says, pushing himself off of the bar. The bar dog rummages for a few seconds before revealing a bottle and sliding it over. Dean nods an absentminded thanks before grabbing its neck and drifting to the speeler’s table.

Dean leans against a beam a foot away from the crowd, having found the perfect window between two onlookers. The gambler who stepped up to the challenge is a slinky blatherskite, roping in the eye-batters with his blusteration — his confidence is only boosted when he wins the round of poker, smugly challenging the dealer for another go between the two of them.

The dealer is the one that catches Dean’s eye: he’s a handsome fellow—a true belvidere—wearing his beard well under his sailor’s cap. In contrast to his audience, he doesn’t say a word, only nodding his confirmation while schooling his expression into something carefully neutral. Though, because Dean is watching him closely, he can almost swear he can see the twinkle in the man’s eye.

The belvidere begins shuffling the cards again, keeping his gaze trained on his opponent, who’s laughing loudly at something or another. Out of intrigue, Dean studies his every move, suspicious of the lack of tensed posture or irritated twitches in his face.

A painted lady wanders up to the table, easily drawing the attention of every man present with a simple shoulder touch here and some sugary words there — it’s only because Dean is sluggish but sharp nonetheless in his slightly fuddled state that he catches the slight of hand, how the dealer slips the card at the bottom of the stack into his sleeve with the flick of a finger. When everyone turns back to the game, it’s as if nothing happened, with the dealer calmly letting cards flutter between his hands as he gives the painted lady a magnetizing grin.

After the dealer lets the blatherskite cut the deck, they each toss in a chip to play, and the cards are dealt. Before he puts down the deck, however, he flips over a wildcard.  _ A four. _ Both players regard it with calm stoicism as they pick up their own hands.

There’s silence as each player analyzes their chances. The dealer bites the nail on his thumb, his attention flickering between his opponent and his hand. While the gambler keeps an inquisitive face, scrunching it as he thinks, the crowd silently judges his hand, ribbing at each other. Dean’s not close enough to see the hand, but based on all the shoot’s reaction, he garners that the blatherskite has a half-decent start.

When they toss in another chip to trade in cards, the blatherskite only asks for one. The dealer takes three.

Now this is where the game gets interesting. Dean watches with amusement out of the corner of his vision how the crowd’s shoulders rise in anticipation before relaxing, indicating the blatherskite almost definitely got the hand he was looking for. What Dean really finds interesting is how the dealer’s eyes skitter over his own cards, holding them close to his long sleeve and making a movement so small that Dean would’ve missed it if he didn’t know what he was looking for. When the dealer looks up again, his opponent is already staring back at him.

The dealer’s chips only take about a third of the space the blatherskite’s does; both players are fully aware of this, with how their gazes both flicker to each respective chip pile and the compiled cash just behind. The dealer visibly but silently gulps. Narrowing his eyes, the blatherskite lays his cards down flat on the table and takes a few of his own chips, tossing them into the pool.

“Bet three,” he says in an awfully nasal voice. The eye-batters murmur their speculations.

Dean watches the dealer, taking note of every tic that—purposefully or not—slips loose. He watches how the dealer’s gaze flickers between his own hand and the chips he has left, lingering on the pooled cash with a tinge of despair. He even watches how the dealer aborts a reach to bite at his thumb again, instead forcing it down and allowing himself to drum his fingers against the table. The blatherskite evidently catches both of these tics, with how smugly he smirks.

“All in,” the dealer raises with a Louisiana drawl, drawing some surprise out of the crowd as he pushes his last chips into the pool. Someone near to Dean mutters  _ “he’s bluffin’”. _ Dean’s more intrigued with hearing the timbre of his voice.

Grinning to himself and predicting how this game will end, Dean reaches into his pocket.

Now that the dealer’s hands are free of cards and chips, he clasps his hands together, controlling their motion. The blatherskite scoffs at this, saying “y’can’t bluff me” before half-heartedly shoving his own chips into the pool. With exaggerated motion, he gestures for the dealer to reveal his hand.

The dealer takes a deep breath as he slides his hand over his cards, letting it linger for dramatics. Just a millisecond before he flips over his hand in a flash, Dean catches how the corner of his mouth twitches upwards.

Two fours and two aces.

With the wildcard, he has a poker with aces.

Everyone’s tensely silent. The blatherskite doesn’t even move as the dealer sits back, beam unhidden across his face as he takes a drink from a glass Dean hadn’t spotted before.

“I paid ta see that hand a’yers, brother,” he says smoothly, and it’s only then that Dean notices how the blatherskite is now red in the face. When he still doesn’t move, the dealer reaches over to turn the cards over for him, in which the blatherskite jerks and finally reveals his own queen-five full house. “Wasn’t too hard now, was it?”

The dealer almost seems oblivious to the boiling tension around him as he reaches for the chips, pulling both them and the cash towards himself. All at once, the commotion begins, some of the more snapped folk passionate about their opinions, accusing the dealer of cheating. Dean also takes notice of how the blatherskite reaches for his pocket, a dangerous look in his eye.

Finally stepping forward into the limelight, Dean takes a large swig of his ale and sets it down on the table with enough force to bring all of the attention over to him. Grinning lazily and letting himself sway slightly, he lets a hand fall onto the blatherskite’s shoulder and pushes him away slightly, letting him know he’s aware that he was reaching for persuasion.

“I’d like to see him try and beat  _ me,” _ he says just a touch too loudly. The dealer raises his eyebrows and gives Dean a once-over before settling down in his spot, already drinking him in.

“And what do  _ you _ have to offer?”

Dean scrunches up his face, exaggeratingly taking his time to think about the question. “A drink. For every chip,” he decides, slipping him a small wink. The dealer mulls it over for a few seconds before nodding his head.

“You have a done deal, brother.” He sets aside a generous amount of his winnings and reaches for his cards, but Dean shoots out a hand to stop him.

“Under one condition:” he continues, “we use  _ my _ deck.”

The dealer pauses, peering at him from under the brim of his sailor’s cap. Dean takes full advantage of the booze running through his system, relaxing in his spot and easily staring back.

“Fine by me,” the dealer determines, holding out his hand. Grinning wider, Dean extracts his own deck from his pocket and slaps it onto the dealer’s palm. Securing his fingers around the cards, he pulls it towards himself and begins shuffling.

Though he tries to keep staring at the dealer’s face, Dean observes how the dealer always splits them the same way and starts flicking the cards with his left hand.  _ Both he and Dean are aware of the king at the bottom of the pile, then _ — Dean is the one that planted it there in the first place.

Grabbing the neck of his ale, Dean takes a swig, pausing to look at the bottle with contempt. “Bar dog got any more of these? I’m almost out,” he complains, taking the chance to glance over his shoulder.  _ There. That’s enough time for the dealer to steal his card.  _ Dean has to put some effort into concealing his smirk when he turns back to the game.

Also while he wasn’t looking, the dealer had set aside a decent pile of chips for him, which he takes from to pay for the game. The dealer lets him cut the deck, and then they’re each dealt a hand. He also flips over another wildcard.  _ A ten, this time. _

Careful to make sure no one can see his hand over his shoulder, Dean checks his cards. There’s a ten, thankfully. Other than that, he’s got an ace of spades, a two and a three of hearts, and a queen of clubs. After the quick glance that he needs, he looks at the dealer.

Instead of biting his thumb, the dealer is rubbing his thumb along his bottom lip, staring at his own hand in thought. When he glances up to Dean, Dean averts his eyes before hurriedly looking at his cards again.

“Just two,” Dean says, tossing another chip in and handing the dealer his two and three.

A jack and another three.  _ Useless. _ Dean lets himself pout at his hand.  _ Whatever… guess what he has will have to do. _

Holding his cards close to himself, Dean watches how the dealer’s eyes narrow ever-so-slightly at his hand, reverting back to drumming his fingers against the tabletop. As he does this and glances at the pool, Dean switches the three with the card hidden in his sleeve. When the dealer looks up again, Dean bites his lip and lets his gaze flicker erratically. The dealer puts his cards down, and Dean mirrors him, reaching for his bottle of ale when the dealer looks at him expectantly. Dean lets himself drink for a beat longer than necessary.

_ “Damn it all,” _ he mutters when he slams down the bottle, shoving all of his chips into the pool. The dealer’s eyebrow twitches upwards, but that’s the only tic he gives away.

Finally, the dealer slides his own chips into the pool, gesturing for Dean to reveal his hand. Dean is about to display his cards when he stops, thinking about the dealer’s dramatism in the last round. Laughing internally at his little show, he reaches for his booze and makes a spectacle of realizing that his bottle is empty. There are some nerves with the knowledge that he didn’t get the hand he so desired, so he lets that show plainly on his face for good measure.

“Triple ace,” he proclaims with pristine clarity, setting the ten with his pair of aces.

It’s extremely difficult to discern with the hazy lighting of the smoky room, but Dean just barely catches how the dealer’s eyes widen acock — it must’ve finally clicked.

“You play a good game, brother,” the dealer admits at last, setting down his own hand: a double pair… with one of those pairs being kings. Dean almost wants to laugh.

Some of the crowd around them titters, and Dean is abruptly brought back to the setting of the saloon.

“I think I said something like that before,” he smirks, standing up and letting the legs of his chair scrape against the floor. The dealer organizes all of the chips together as Dean takes his cards back but stops and stares at him incredulously when Dean leaves without taking his cash prize. “You’re not so bad yourself,” Dean says with a wink, “but I need another drink.” He continues back to the bar without so much as a glance behind.

The bar dog is busy with other patrons when Dean reaches his previously abandoned post, so he leans against the bar top, letting himself zone out slightly as he waits. While bucking the tiger gave him some sense of normalcy, something focused his mind could latch onto, he can feel himself descending into his blue funk again. An afterimage of Little Joe’s face floats across his vision, and his fingers twitch for the phantom of any kind of bug juice.

“It ain’t polite ta steal a man’s winnings.”

Dean, too tired to startle, tilts his head to look at the Louisiana native. The dealer is standing beside him, leaning on his forearms against the bar top.

Huffing, Dean smiles self-deprecatingly and faces forward again. “You’re an honest man for a cheat.”

He grins. “I’ll respect a man who wins fair-n-square.”

The man doesn’t show any signs of leaving, and Dean comes to find that he isn’t quite opposed to this realization either.

“Don’t need ‘em,” he says, scanning for the bar dog.

“No needta be a saint.” The dealer twiddles his thumbs, studying Dean over. “If we play by your rules, then I owe you some drinks.”

Dean shrugs. The dealer’s beam widens, hinting teeth.

He whistles, and almost immediately, the bar dog looks over his shoulder at him, halting his own idle conversation. “Hey, Jim! Two of the usual, when ya can.” Jim nods, reaching for two clean glasses. The dealer turns back to Dean. “The name’s Benny, by the way.” Dean takes the hand that’s offered and gives it a firm shake.

“Dean.”

“Well,  _ Dean _ … what’s with the blue devils? Tryna drown your miseries? Somethin’ to forget?”

“Got someone dead that shouldn’t be.”

“Lord bless their soul, but it’s useless to drag your ass unless yer gonna raise ‘em from the dead, brother.” Two whiskeys are slid towards them, and Benny hands him one, holding up his own. “For a good game of poker?”

“I can toast to that,” Dean says, raising his glass and tapping the rim against Benny’s. Holding each other’s lazy stare until the last possible second, they bring their drink to their lips in tandem, pouring the fiery liquid down their throats in one shot and slamming the empty glass onto the bar top.

“How’d ya do it?” Benny asks, voice all gravel with the liquor. He waves Jim over again to get their glasses refilled.

“How’d I do what?”

“You know how often it is that I find a black leg with real gamblin’ sense about him?”

“A magician never gives away his tricks.”

“Aw,  _ don’t be like that, Dean,” _ Benny purrs, and suddenly he’s leaning in closer, winking slyly and smelling entirely of smoke with a hint of alcohol on his breath. “Just between you and me, how about it? Won’t tell a soul.”

Dean draws in a steady breath. “How am I supposed to getcha again?”

“What, like ya got only one trick?”

Reaching for his drink, Dean ends up putting space between them, and it feels just slightly easier to breathe. He stares at the liquid for a few seconds before downing it.

“Played the drunk,” he says. Benny’s eyes narrow, but the amusement never leaves his face.

“Confidence doesn’t buy you luck, brother.”

Dean rolls his eyes, relenting. “Look, bub: I put that king there.”

Benny laughs. “Thought I had my tracks covered.”

“Not when you know what you’re lookin’ for,” Dean grins.

Though Dean had been looking for room to “think”, he comes to find himself basking in Benny’s presence, drifting closer into his space as the evening crawls by. Benny maintains a constant supply of booze so that Dean’s head feels light, his chest warm, and the rest of the saloon fuzzy. He finds himself swaying towards the man, leaning in to whisper words in a low voice more than once. Dean was already aware of how much he enjoys listening to his companion’s Louisiana drawl, how the low rumble in his tone draws him in, but with the benzene running through his system, he finds himself staring at the beard that covers his jaw, how his lips curl into a smile over pearly teeth. Surely, the fluid lack of tension in his limbs, the pulse dwelling in his groin, is solely a product of the drink.

“All I need now is a good fuck,” Dean murmurs, swirling the half-empty glass in his hand. Benny has an unreadable expression on his face.

“There’s a good bed house down the road.”

Dean nods decisively, pushing himself up off the bar. “Y’know what? Let’s go have a look… on my dime.” He winks, to which Benny raises his eyebrows before grinning. Dean ruins the effect slightly as he sways in his balance.

“You’ve got yourself a done deal, brother.”

Benny pays for their drinks with a good chunk of his winnings from earlier while Dean shrugs his duster back on, which he had removed earlier and rolled up his sleeves due to the warmth that prickled underneath his skin. When Benny brings his attention back to him, Dean smiles dumbly back at him, stumbling a bit in his step as he follows him out of the saloon.

Just outside the door, Benny pauses, reaching in a pocket and extracting a pre-rolled cigarette. Dean leans against a post supporting the overhang in front of the saloon, head against the wood as he gazes over his cheeks at his companion striking a match to light his smoke. He watches how the embers glow in the dark as the man inhales, how his eyes fall shut as he blows smoke to the stars.

Dean likes Benny. Sure, he’s only just met him, not to mention the fact that he’s nowhere near sober, but he likes him. He likes the way he speaks, likes the way he thinks, likes listening to what he has to say.

Benny had mentioned earlier that he’s a chuck-line rider — he’s in town because he just finished a drive all the way up from Texas. Dean was correct when placing his accent to Louisiana: Benny had actually worked in a ship port for most of his life, sailing down the East coast to bring cargo down South. Then, partially for a change of scenery, partially because his gambling tendencies had gotten him into a real bad box with some of the other sailors, Benny had ridden into Texas and learned to wrangle horses for the first ranch he could find. With that job done, however, he was simply floating around Ellsworth with nothing but his belongings and his work’s pay.

“Said you’re out a job?” Dean murmurs.

Benny hums in agreement.

_ This is stupid. _ Only a few hours earlier, Dean was beating himself up for Little Joe’s death, blaming himself for the kid’s end that he didn’t deserve. Now, every time he even tries to think of the kid, his mind drifts back to Benny, stubbornly lingering on a longing to remain in his company.

“Th’kid was our wrangler. Spot’s open now,” he says, and then adds: “if y’like.”

Benny stares at him, taking a slow drag of his brain tablet. His thoughts are probably equally as sluggish, if the laziness in his words is anything to go by, so he takes a while to respond.

“Ah would not be  _ opposed,” _ he begins slowly, “if you were so inclined… to allow lil’ old me into your cow punchin’ club.”

Dean beams. “I wouldn’t wish for anyone else.”

Smiling to himself, Benny looks away, taking another drag. Dean takes a moment to appreciate the cool desert wind against his skin, sobering him slightly but letting him revel in the simmering peace the intoxication brings him.

“When were ya thinkin’?”

Dean frowns, attempting to sift through the sluggishness and fog over his thoughts. “To the ranch?”

“Had anywhere else in mind?”

He smirks, more at the feeling the words elicit. “I was gonna leave in the morning.”

“You’ll meet the devil that early like this.”

“Bit of willow bark and I’ll be right as rain. Say… nine o’clock in the morning, in front of the bed house?”

Benny shrugs. “Fine with me. Might haveta restock grub for the ride.”

Still smoking, Benny begins to amble down the boardwalk, Dean falling into step at his side. There aren’t as many people walking around the cattle town now, but life still filters out from the saloons, their light attracting it like moths.

The brothel Benny had mentioned is in a more secluded area, as half-hidden as a parlor house can be in the middle of the Kansas prairie. Most of the light coming from the building seems to flood from the main room aside from the painted red lantern out front, but even so, it’s dimmed by deep red curtains.

“This should be enough,” Dean says, grabbing a handful of cash from his pocket and stuffing it into Benny’s free hand. Benny looks at him curiously, cigarette propped in the corner of his mouth. “Needta piss. Y’can go on ahead,” he elaborates. Benny nods, dropping his cigarette to the ground on the road and rubbing it into the dirt with his shoe before heading on inside.

Stumbling to a shadowed side of the building where a few pitiful shrubs grow, Dean relieves himself. It’s a quick act, and it actually takes him longer to find his way back, impaired by both the darkness as well as the wobble in his step.

Inside, Dean is hit with the undeniable aroma of cigar smoke and warm food (which must’ve been served earlier for currently busier patrons). Dean vaguely tries to locate Benny in the sultry dimness of the room, but upon failing to find his companion, assumes he’s already being served. The madame is nowhere to be seen, but there’s a couple of painted ladies draped along sofas in the main parlor room. It’s not too high-end of a business (which Dean is relieved about: he’d rather not spend five dollars on one night, if he can), but the place is clean and the girls are pretty, and there’s a soiled dove in the corner playing the piano, barely masking the creaking of wood and breathy moans separated only by the floor above them.

Dean lingers at the entrance for a while, doing his best to collect his sobriety and clear his head for long enough to not seem like he’s been in the sun. He takes the moment to observe the pleasantries being exchanged just across the room.

There’s one other guest present: he’s sitting on one of the larger loveseats with a painted lady leaning towards him, whispering words only between them. The man is a seedy fellow, and Dean would bet a fair sum that he’s just as soaked as he is.

He begins to step forward, inching closer to the party, when the guest’s companion suddenly straightens and stands up, smoothing her lacy dress down. The man starts to complain, his words slurring together as he reaches to pull her back.

“Whaddya mean a dollar ain’t enough?” he whines, standing up in her stead as she moves away from his touch.  _ “Just a whore, anyways.” _

Dean’s not sure what her response is, because all he sees is how the barrel boarder gropes the girl, profusely ignoring her rather gentle protests. The next thing he knows, he’s got fabric in his fist and has pulled the man towards him with more force than he intended.

_ “Got a problem, asshole?” _ he growls, feeling the blood rush through his veins. Through his alcohol-boosted, savagerous haze, he can see the man’s expression contort into one of rage.

The barrel boarder shoves him hard, loosening Dean’s grip. “Only with you, you fucking bastard.”

His control slips for only a moment, and he consequently finds his fist connected with the other guest’s nose, feeling it distort under his knuckles. One of the girls shrieks. Blood drips onto the wooden panels below their feet. The next moment, a fist connects with his jaw, snapping his head to the side with the force of its impact. Dean stares at the floorboards for only a second to catch his breath before he swings back and manages to secure a black eye for that piece of scum before he can feel himself pulled away from the scrap.

“Take him!” he protests, trying to wriggle out of the bouncer’s grasp.  _ “He’s the one who started—!” _

“I have eyes, b’hoy,” the bouncer—who must’ve materialized out of nowhere—tells him gruffly. He kicks at Dean’s legs to incapacitate him, and successfully hits Dean’s bad ankle. “We got no need for troublemakers like you.”

_ “I didn’t—!” _ Dean starts but is winded by a punch to the ribs.  _ There goes all that healing for the fracture. _

Dragged to the door at the back of the parlor house, the screen is barely open before Dean’s quite literally thrown out, tumbling down the porch stairs until he’s lying in the dirt.

“And don’tcha even  _ think _ about comin’ back!” is the last thing he hears before the door is shut behind the bouncer.

_ Fuck _ , is all Dean can think, chanted like a mantra in his head to the throb of his pain. The sting in his ankle is horribly familiar, and the shortness and sharp pain with his breath has his head spinning — with the booze already making things worse, Dean’s surprised he hasn’t passed out yet… perhaps it serves more as a buffer for the agony, for now. Dry heaving will only make him feel worse, so he puts most of his concentration on regulating his breath and coaxing his stomach to stop churning.

Dragging himself up into a sitting position (blame it all, he can only begin to feel how his tumble down the stairs beat him up), he immediately leans against the stairs, willing away the nausea that overcomes him as the blood floods out of his head. Dean can feel how his hands shake from exertion, and he almost laughs at himself, how he’s hit bed-rock in such a short period of time.

Little Joe’s death was all his fucking fault: if only he had  _ tried harder _ … tried to keep him on the ranch, taking care of the horses with Jo… maybe even kept a better lookout for the kid during the stampede, made sure he didn’t even get a nightshift in the first place. The kid was his responsibility—Dean had been assigned auger for the drive, the most trusted by and familiar with Bobby—and he just let him die. Kid hates him too.  _ So much for that trust everyone had. _

Seems he can’t do anything right, because even when he tries to protect one of the poor girls in the parlor house,  _ he’s _ the one that’s penalized. Dean doesn’t even want to imagine what that absolute creep is doing to her now.

This is what he gets; he supposes he deserves it. Nothing but a pitiful drunk, crumpled behind a bed house where—even  _ there _ —he wasn’t wanted. He hopes that at least Sam and Charlie are enjoying themselves, now that they don’t have to drag around his sorry ass. Finding Benny was almost a saving grace, but it’s probably for the better that the sailor is not in Dean’s company anymore.

“Can’t save  _ anyone,” _ he mutters to himself, laughing self-deprecatingly until he can’t anymore, his ribs screaming with agony. Groaning, he hugs his chest and puts his head between his knees, trying to balance getting the right amount of air into his body and making sure his lung doesn’t rub against his bad rib too much.

After he’s collected himself enough that he can feel the exhaustion settle into his bones, Dean lifts his head, resting his chin on his forearms. He’s almost startled to see someone standing in the shadows near the corner of the parlor house ( _ has he been there the entire time? _ ), hands shoved into the pockets of his duster and peering curiously at Dean in his sorry state.

“Waitin’ for th’cows t’come home?” he slurs, unconcerned if he’s even intelligible through the gravel in his voice. The man merely tilts his head. Dean laughs at his own joke before remembering yet again about the discomfort in his chest. “Got any smokes?”

His company shakes his head.

Dean shrugs. “Not really my thing either. Well! Sorry you had… had to see, uh, me… uh… Got a name?”

“Castiel—”

“Cas?”

“No—”

“Cas… Cas, Cas, Cas, Cas,  _ Cas _ … I like it. Tastes nicely in the mouth.”

The man doesn’t move or say anything in response, but Dean is too preoccupied with chuckling to himself, rolling his head back from shoulder to shoulder.

“I’m not wanted here, I should go… go to…” Dean hums, grasping for any kind of support to heave himself up, “maybe I’ll go see Impala. Sleep in the hay—oh,  _ shit _ —” As soon as he puts too much weight on his ankle, he immediately crumples.

In a flash, the man had darted out of the shadows and caught Dean under the arms — which is an impressive feat, considering he’s currently holding up all of Dean’s weight, and Dean is  _ not _ a small man. Cas helps Dean onto the bottom step of the brothel so he can regain himself.

“What happened?” Cas asks, and now, out in the light of the brothel porch, Dean can see him (somewhat) clearly.

Castiel is by no means a large man either, but he definitely packs some serious muscle under that duster of his. He seems to be too classy of a fellow to be lingering around the backs of bed houses, considering the black waistcoat and necktie that peek out from underneath his tan coat. His messy black hair matches the stubble that brushes his jaw, and Dean can’t help but be drawn to the piercingly blue eyes that stare back at him with rather confused concern.

“Um,” Dean says dumbly, trying to navigate the events that had gotten him into this position in the first place. “Old battle wounds.”

Cas narrows his eyes. “You were thrown down the stairs for  _ ‘old battle wounds’ _ ?”

“Nah. Asshole called the girl a whore, tried feelin’ her up without the coin… blazin’ bouncer blamed it all on me.”

“You… got into a fight?”

“Barrel boarder was a blamin’ creep. Got what he deserved.” Dean grins toothily before registering the iron taste of blood. “Gave that bastard a broken nose and black eyes.”

To Dean’s delight, Cas seems… amused, judging by how the corner of his mouth keeps on trying to twitch upwards. “Where are you staying?”

Dean’s expression sours. He jerks his head in the direction of the closed door. “Well, I was going to stay there for the night, but it looks like I’m  _ no longer welcome. _

The stranger pouts (rather adorably, Dean’s unreliable consciousness tacks on), assessing the drunk he’s still gripping. After a moment of consideration, he pulls a waterskin from underneath his coat, offering it to Dean despite it still being attached to the strap around his chest.

“It’ll help,” Cas eases when Dean turns away to reject. “I… promise?”

Dean laughs abruptly, hugging his chest when the fracture scrapes against his lungs again. “Don’ wanna be a burden,” he wheezes, but takes a good long drink from the waterskin anyway. When Cas offers him what looks like willow bark, Dean takes it too.

“Can you stand?” Cas asks, straightening from where he was crouched. “Where I’m staying isn’t too far from here.”

“Where you’re—” Dean processes his words. “ _ No! _ No, I’m not—”

Cas cocks his head to the side. “Did you not say that you didn’t have anywhere to stay?”

Sighing, Dean shakes his head.  _ He _ doesn’t feel like he deserves the generosity, but he’s too tired to argue.

“Th’name’s Dean,” he says when he’s being half-carried by the Good Samaritan, after unsuccessfully having tried to stand up by himself for a second time — he’s still determined to walk as independently as possible, using the man mainly as a crutch.

“Dean…” Cas says thoughtfully, like he’s testing how the name feels in his mouth. “Dean. I simply do not understand why you dislike receiving help so much.”

He scoffs. “Because I don’t deserve it. First I kill the poor kid—”

“You killed someone?”

Dean doesn’t know why his lips are so loose around this stranger.  _ Darn bug juice. _ “It’s my fault he’s dead,” he explains, circumventing a wave of emotion by accidentally losing his footing, subconsciously gripping onto the stranger’s coat tighter. The man’s body is warm and his hold is secure, but Dean finds that he doesn’t mind. “I’m always sayin’ that he’s too young to be goin’ cow punchin’ with the rest of the hands, and I was the one on night duty when the storm hit. And that soiled dove…  _ shit _ , I couldn’t save her either.”

The willow bark is thankfully kicking in, but so is the exhaustion, so he’s dragging his feet to wherever this handsome stranger is leading him. Dean can barely tell if his companion is even listening to his rambling, but he’s stopped caring a while ago.

“Don’t deserve it ‘cause all I do is take,” he continues, mumbling. “Y’know, I was raised from the dead recently. Damn prairie fire. Fellow was kinda like you, Cas: all awkward-like.” Cas stiffens beside him, just barely. “What? I’d almost peg you as a real dude… or is it the nickname?”

“I’ve… been West for a long time now,” Cas says, but ignores the comment about his name. Dean takes this as a good sign.

“And that Anglomaniac stuffiness stuck?” Dean laughs. “I don’t care. You saved me, so did he. In fact, he saved me twice.”

“He… did?”

“Mhm. Ran in with a… bad crowd. ‘S what beat up my old battle wounds. Barely managed to crawl outta there, and then I saw him. Just… took ‘em all down, like it was nothin’.” Dean takes a moment of pause, reminiscing as Cas hauls him into a hotel.

While there’s plenty of life outside, there’s only a barrow-tram at the front desk. Cas nods to him politely as they pass, heading to the stairs at the back of the lobby.

“I never got to thank him,” Dean continues sadly. He winces before waving Cas away, leaning on the handrail for support as Cas shadows him carefully. “After the fire, he bandaged me up, fed me ‘till my belly was full, and gave me back my Baby. He disappeared before I could say anythin’. Second time too. Didn’t stay long enough for no greeting.” Dean frowns at his feet, pausing to center himself. “Don’t even know how I’d thank him.”

“I’m… sure he’d appreciate the sentiment,” Cas pieces together, so Dean offers him a weak smile in return. Luckily, he’s not too far off the second landing in the stairwell, because the simple act of looking up at Cas has his liquor-addled brain swaying. Cas easily catches and steadies him. “First room on the right,” he says, as if to encourage Dean. (It does).

Cas has the door open in seconds, and Dean leans against the doorframe, scanning its interior. It’s a modest room, rented out for temporary stays. The bed remains perfectly made. Dean pushes himself off the door to head to one of the cushioned armchairs by the window until Cas stops him.

“Go to the bed,” Cas orders gently. “Take off your coat and boots — I’ll see if I can find you a clean change of clothes.”

Dean flounders. “But— Your—”

He shakes his head. “I do not need the sleep you do. Your wounds must also be attended to.”

Again, Dean relents.

The bed is soft and welcoming, beckoning as he sinks into its comfort. His boots are difficult to slide off, especially with the swelling of the one ankle, but there’s a definite sense of relief that comes with the release of his feet, in addition to the added discomfort where the little support his bad ankle had is removed. Dean’s duster is also shrugged off with haste and hung up on one of the bedposts, boots neatly lined up beside the bed. He also unbuttons his shirt and tosses it to an adjacent chair, careful with his tender wrist that caught his fall down the stairs.

More kerosene lamps are lit in the room, and by the time Dean has a pant leg rolled up, ready to bandage his ankle again, Cas is returning with an armful of clean dressings. He hands Dean a clean pair of loose trousers first, which Dean gratefully accepts, maneuvering himself onto the bed completely to tug off his dirty ones and replace them with Cas’s. Dean doesn’t have the opportunity to sit back up when Cas takes a seat on the mattress beside his legs, eyes already tracing the damage.

“Old battle wounds…” Cas murmurs. Fingers reach out and brush lightly against the healing anti-possession symbol that had been branded onto the left side of his chest—just underneath his collarbone—two weeks ago. The skin there is pinker and raised, but it doesn’t sting as much as the fresher aches — he’d finally taken off that bandage a few days ago.

“That one’s a safety precaution,” Dean explains. He would’ve thought people would be scared away by its demonic visage, but Cas simply looks fascinated. “S’pposed to scare away bad crowd, or something’.” Cas studies it for a few more moments before finally pulling his gaze away.

Dean wants to help, but with the combination of his over-exhaustion and Cas’s determination to play doctor, he ends up blearily watching Cas work. The bandages around his ribs have already been loosened throughout the day, so Cas makes quick work of them, easing Dean up so he can wrap fresh dressings around the damage. Dean can’t see how it’s purpled, but based on the twitch in Cas’s face, he can guess what it looks like.

At some point, Cas had found a washcloth and a bowl of water, cleaning open gashes and scrapes Dean had gained from tumbling down the stairs. Dean is barely paying attention, barely conscious, but when the cool cloth smooths back his hair, his eyes close and he smiles, humming and leaning into the sensation.

A hand cups his face, cautiously minding the tenderness in his jaw, causing Dean’s eyes to flutter back open again and stare at his savior lazily. When a thumb brushes against his bottom lip, his eyes look as far down as they can, trying their best to trace its movement.

“You got this from the fight?” Cas asks.

Confused as to what he’s talking about, Dean’s tongue flicks out, tasting for blood. When he accidentally tastes the saltiness of another’s skin, catching the tip of Cas’s thumb, he sees Cas’s eyes widen slightly, frozen before he retracts his hand with an abrupt inhale.

“Oh, is it split?” Dean wonders absently. It  _ tastes _ like blood.

Cas nods. “There’s a bruise forming on your jaw as well.”

“Only hit the sucker got on me,” Dean smirks proudly, feeling the ache as his facial muscles shift. Cas rolls his eyes before bringing the cloth to his face, freshly cool, and holds it against the bruise.

“There’s some water on the dresser near you… and make sure you spit out the willow bark before you sleep,” Cas instructs, heaving himself off the bed with all of the old bandages. Dean blinks: he hadn’t noticed that Cas had finished already.

Actually trying to listen, he leaves the willow bark wad on the dresser and manages to sip at half of the water in the glass. “I dunno how to thank you,” he slurs, his body trying to shut down at last.

A hint of a smile ghosts Cas’s face. “I also have my debts to pay.”

He washes up his hands with the rest of the water from the bowl he was using to clean Dean. Towelling them dry, he moves towards him again, offering to take the half-empty glass.

“You’re a saint,” Dean murmurs.

“Nothing near the sort, I’m afraid.”

“Can’t be worse than me.”

A hand guides him back down onto the pillow, brushing loose strands of hair away from his forehead and back, letting fingers scrape gently against his scalp. Dean’s eyes shut contentedly at the contact.

“You can’t carry the world on your shoulders, Dean. I think you already carry enough.”

Dean’s eyes don’t reopen for the rest of the night.


	9. Another Journey Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **!!!** [Here's the censored version of this chapter.](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1wYEq-YoBumhifP3x0EgokIfTV-Fh0lnJA8IlKq_4k5Y/edit?usp=sharing) **!!!**
> 
> The final two songs in [the Spotify Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0AWVSLEEwnPvFmVV6iO2a0?si=o4YtsGejQUac_8nRhkeCSg) are mentioned in this chapter; you can find the sung one on Youtube [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bVmmxbNm33Y&ab_channel=TheLongestJohns-Topic) and the referenced one on Youtube [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9wBWcx5vKAM&ab_channel=RogerWelsch-Topic).

At whatever point Dean wakes, he remains completely still, a splitting headache keeping him in his semi-conscious state despite his want to fall back asleep. Rolling over slightly, he groans at how the rest of his body evidently protests.

“Awake?” a voice asks.

Dean, somewhat startled, tries to blink his eyes open before immediately slamming them shut, blinded by the sun filtering in through the window. He groans again in answer.

“There’s some water and willow bark on the nightstand,” the voice continues, “and when you’re feeling better, I’ve set some breakfast on the table over here.”

“Listen,” Dean grumbles, half-asleep. “I’ll pay you back—”

“There’s no need. I’ve told you already, Dean: I have my own debts to pay.”

_ Cas. _ He relaxes into the warmth of his bed.

“What time is it?” he murmurs.

There’s a click of a pocket watch opening. “Half past eight. I will have to leave you here soon: I’ve found more work, and I’d like to reach the camp before the evening falls."

Half past eight…  _ shit. _

“Shit,” Dean says, sitting up all too soon before a wave of nausea forces him back against the headboard. “I need to meet Benny at nine… in front of the…  _ oh, fuck.” _

“Is half an hour not enough?”

“To stop feeling like the devil dragged me to hell and back? I sure hope it is.”

Bracing himself, he leans over and reaches for the glass of water set out for him, downing it with sweet relief. Though he immediately thirsts for more, he sets the glass down with a lot of weight, scrabbling for the willow bark to shove into his mouth.

“If I did anything even remotely shameful last night, it didn’t happen,” Dean says, laying back and waiting for the drug to kick in. Managing to open his eyes just a slit, he sees Cas across the room, watching Dean with the very hint of a smile playing across his features.

“I’ll try to remember.”

Dean narrows his eyes (or at least the spirit is there). “…  _ Did _ I do anything shameful?”

A raise of an eyebrow. “Other than getting thrown out of a brothel?”

“Yeah, well,” Dean glares at him, touching at the tenderness of his jaw, “I know  _ that _ already.” He can also feel the scab on his lip, which will definitely split open again with how dry the air has been.

Cas is almost finished packing up, though it didn’t seem like he had much to pack in the first place. Despite having been occupied for at least one night, the room looks almost untouched, save for the plate of food on the table, Dean’s coat and boots, and the (now clean — Cas must’ve washed them while Dean was asleep) clothes Dean had been wearing yesterday, hanging to dry on the back of a chair.

“I’m going to take my leave now,” Cas tells him, holding his belongings under an arm and heading towards the door. “You can stay here for as long as you wish, but the housekeeper will be up at noon to clean the room.”

As he begins to leave, disappearing from Dean’s life as quickly as he stumbled in, Dean takes a second to process the words in his sluggish state before shouting louder than he means to: “Cas,  _ wait!” _

And glory be, Cas stops, looking at Dean over his shoulder.

Dean… doesn’t actually know what to say. His lips move to shape phantom words but draw no sound. Cas, patient as he is, seems to grow confused. The longer Dean hesitates, the more awkward the tension becomes.

He takes a deep breath. “I— Thank you,” he finally admits, the words tumbling from his mouth with his exhale. “I… I dunno where I would’ve been if you didn’t find me like that, I don’t… I don’t know how to thank you properly. If you ever… need… something… I’d be more than happy to help.” He manages to give Cas a weak smile when he runs out of words.

The soft smile that is returned melts something inside of Dean.

“Safe travels, Dean,” is all that he gets in response before Cas disappears entirely.

Dean marvels at the fact that even though he got the chance to express his gratitude, he feels like there’s something missing when he finds himself alone in his borrowed room.

* * *

Dean, of course, is ten minutes late. He finds Benny against the outer wall of the parlor house, finishing a cigarette.

At first, Benny is both confused and concerned at the split lip and purple jaw Dean is sporting. Then, he finds it funny.

“Don’t take me wrong, brother,” he says as he catches his breath. “That was a noble thing for you to do. I heard some talk of it as I was leaving… gal tried to stick up for ya, but she’s a soft-spoken thing. Didn’t think  _ you _ were the one that bit the bad end of that bargain.”

Benny, of course, had a wonderful night. Aside from his own barrel fever, Benny is in great spirits, trying to recount the titillation brought on by the girl he had chosen as they replenish supplies for the journey home.

The horse that Benny brings out from the livery—Andrea, Dean had heard him call her—is a beautiful bay horse; he said he had only moved to ranch work recently, but that mare looks to have a lot of respect for him.

When Dean brings out Impala, Benny whistles. Dean beams with pride. Leaving her and Andrea to become acquainted, he goes to find the bandwagon to pick up some last few supplies to secure on Impala’s saddle before they finally head out of Ellsworth.

* * *

Though not quite as good as Impala (Dean stands by the fact that she’s the best horse in the West), Andrea has great stamina, so both Dean and Benny cut dirt and will probably arrive back at the ranch in about four days.

Benny is amazing company. On the slower portions of their rides, where they don’t ride in silence, Benny will casually steer Andrea so that she falls in step beside Impala. When they ride together, gently bobbing to their horses’ step, they talk, losing hours of time. Dean talks about Sammy, about the shenanigans they used to get up to growing up on the ranch, about how Charlie and Jo would join them, about drives that Bobby would take them all on just to go see Ellen for a week. Benny, in turn, tells Dean all about his life as a sailor, about the ports he’d seen, about the people he’d seen, and, of course, how he started his gig as a horse wrangler.

“Now, my Andrea was a mean old thing,” Benny says. Almost like she knows he’s talking about her, Andrea snuffles and shakes her head, trying to loosen her reins. “Didn’t ask fer none a yer attitude, sweetheart,” he chides, pulling up gently at her reins before letting the leather hang a bit lower anyhow. “Stubborn girl, but the ranch let me have her for twenty-five dollars and got me to wrangle the rest of the bunch. Gave her some time, but she took to me…  _ ain’t that right, girl?” _

“You got a good deal outta her,” Dean muses, watching her gait.

“Only ‘cause I’m near stubborn as her,” he grins. “Can’t tell you how many times I ate gravel; sailin’ across the desert ain’t too different than the sea—ship’s got a mind of its own, at times—but ya gotta use patience to teach an old dog new tricks.”

When they stop for the evening, Benny’s the one that cooks, bringing out ingredients that Dean almost feels is unnecessary to carry along on such a long trip. Benny disagrees, saying that half a week is nothing — especially with all of one’s belongings on one’s back.

“S’called gumbo,” he explains, watching a pot filled with sausage and chunks of beef stew. Dean’s pot had been used separately for rice, and Benny also has a pan darkening some roux. “Saw they were sellin’ okra and couldn’t help m’self. Too bad there ain’t much seafood up here.”

Dean picks up one of the green, pepper-like vegetables Benny is preparing, feeling its fuzzy texture curiously. “So much effort for one dish… still don’t get why you’d bring all this for traveling.”

“Aw,  _ Dean _ … who shoved that stick up your ass? I grew up on this stuff… every good Southern lad and lassie did.”

“Just know that you’ll be the one responsible if there’s leftovers,” Dean challenges. His persistence doesn’t stop him from watching Benny’s every move with care, mentally taking note of every step he takes and every piece of history he doles out as he works his magic.

As it turns out, they don’t have to worry about leftovers.

“This a family secret or somethin’?” Dean asks, leaning against a rock with his hands crossed over a full belly, lazily staring at the dying flames. It’s been a darn long time since he’s had a meal like that… and with Benny’s laughter to accompany them, alone under the twinkling stars that emerge after dusk? Not even the desert chill can dampen the warm feeling that courses through his veins.

“Makin’ it up as I go,” Benny murmurs. His head is tipped back and his eyes are closed, also reveling in the moment. Dean lets himself stare in his post-meal drunkenness.

Even on the hard ground in his hen skins, it’s one of the best nights of sleep he’s gotten in a long time. When he wakes, his aches from Ellsworth have settled like lead in his body, but he’s well rested, and it’s nothing a little willow bark and brown gargle can’t fix.

Sometime along the way, when Andrea and Impala are slowed to a walk, Benny starts singing, his rich voice carrying across the open landscape around them:

_“Well, I wish I was in Mobile Bay,_  
_Screwin’ cotton all the day,_  
_But I’m stowin’ sugar in the hold below,_  
_Below, below, below… huah!”_  


Songs of the sea have… a different voice to them; this one in particular has that very quality. Dean’s aware that sailors have their own songs—just like he and the rest of the cowboys do—but you can hear the difference between the two, simply within the melody. With the more gospel-like quality to this one especially, it’s almost definitely of New Orleans origin.

_“Hey, ho, below, below,_  
_Stowin’ sugar in the hold below,_  
_Hey, ho, below, below,_  
_Stowin’ sugar in the hold below.”_  


Dean, intrigued both by the music as well as the story it tells, listens carefully to Benny’s words for just a taste of a seaman’s life. When Benny reaches the refrain again, Dean hums along, his brain already racing to begin piecing together harmonies. By the final refrain, Dean already has both the melody and the lyrics down, and, grinning, Benny’s voice pitches down to weave a familiar harmony itself as Dean carries the original tune.

“Feels so lonely out here,” Benny notes when they finally drop off the last note. “Nothin’ but our voices to accompany us, but we always got the entire crew there.”

“Usually just us and the beeves,” Dean says. “I always sing at night to keep ‘em calm, but you pick ‘em up here and there. It’s better to have somethin’ to strum, sometimes Rufus’s old harmonica is good enough, but you don’t have much on you out on the range.”

There’s a sly glint in Benny’s eye. “Guess you’ll have to teach me your trade, then, brother.”

Dean laughs. “Then I have the perfect one for you,” he says, and then starts to sing about  _ The Horse Wrangler, _ about a naïve fellow who decides to try cow punching for a change of scenery.

They get lost in story and song, immersing in each other’s backgrounds by listening to the other’s words and learning every melody. When Dean’s throat is dry from singing after only refilling his canteen within the past couple hours, he finds he can hardly bring himself to care.

* * *

Benny fell asleep before the fire completely died away, but Dean still sits there, watching as the flames lick the last ashy log and crumble into embers.

Something doesn’t feel right. Dean is a gut-instinct kind of man, but even so, a  _ feeling _ is not very much to go on. He’s definitely not as tired as Benny—as tough as he is, Dean’s been riding hard for many days in a row for as long as he can remember, and, however similar sailing is, Benny is still getting used to this kind of life—but he’s weary, so it’s not a lack of exhaustion that’s keeping him awake (even if it’s some instinctual adrenaline rush that’s keeping his senses sharp). It has also been a while since Dean’s properly had the time to let loose, and both times he was in town within the past month, he’d somehow missed the opportunity to snag himself a soiled dove for the night… but it’s not quite that, either. The energy that courses through him is old and mysterious, like the feeling he gets every time he holds the burning gold pocket watch in the palm of his hand; its presence lies heavy in his pocket, so he takes it out, fiddling with its chain.

Getting up and brushing the dust off his pants, he tucks the watch back into his pocket, safe from the world.  _ May as well take a walk to try and shave the edge off. _

Dean wanders down to the bank of the Arkansas river, making sure Benny and the camp remain visible from wherever he wanders. The sound of running water is calming to him, only a wall of vegetation between him and the noise.

There’s a pinprick of light between the leaves, and Dean tenses, automatically crouching to hide. Glancing back at where Benny is, he hopes that he’ll be alright as he presses forward, mindful of every step as he inches closer to the riverbank.

As he nears the source of the light, with some concentration, Dean can hear idle humming underneath the babble of running water. Straining his eyes, he sees a man shin-deep in the flat river, sleeves and pant legs rolled up as he’s washing… clothes? Dishes? He’s lit by a lantern that flickers, kept safe from the water from on top of a large boulder.

“There’s no need to hide, Dean.”

Dean startles, rustling branches around him as he grabs a tree trunk to steady himself. His heart beats wildly in his chest, torn between trusting the friendly voice or turning tail.

“Ever the distrustful,” the voice comes again. “I’m a friend.”

Biting his lip in one last moment of indecision, Dean steps out of the shadows into the clearing, being especially careful to conceal his limp.

“Who are you?” he bites out. He stays on shore, keeping dry while trying to get a better look at the man hunched over in the water.

Only now does the man pause in his chore, turning slowly to study Dean. His gaze is piercing, and his eyes seem to glow in the lamplight; as intimidating as it is and as much as it pushes Dean further on edge, for some reason he doesn’t feel like it’ll harm him (in this moment, at least).

“You’ve changed, Dean Winchester,” he says. The rough beard that covers his face and the hair that flops into his eyes almost seems familiar, but Dean can’t quite place it yet. “I take it you’ve seen some things since we last met.”

Dean shifts in his stance, keeping his weight off his bad ankle.  _ “How do you know me? _ I don’t think we’ve met.”

The man chuckles. “I’m surprised  _ you _ don’t: you were the one who won our little game of poker.” He turns back to the shirt floating in the water and the soap in his hand, and only then does Dean catch sight of it: the F-like brand on his forearm.

“You’re that drunk from the bodega in—”

“I wasn’t drunk,” the belvidere says, “and if you think back to my words, you’ll realize that I was right, wasn’t I?”

Dean frowns. He can’t remember exactly what he said other than the fact that it sounded like balderdash.

“Did you get the revolver in your hands safely?” he asks, continuing with his washing as if he hadn’t just frozen Dean as Dean buffers with the question.

“That was you?” Dean pauses. “Are… Are  _ you _ Colt?”

He can barely see how the man smiles. “Colt was a… friend, of mine. When he passed, I took possession of the revolver.”

“… Why didn’t you keep it for yourself?”

Something about him turns sad, almost completely indiscernible. “Because I’m done with that kind of life. I was foolish enough to believe that even a cursed man could be happy, but I am wiser now. They already want me, so I need you to keep it instead; you will find more use for it, too.”

This moment almost feels… dreamlike, like Dean isn’t correctly processing what’s happening.

“Why would—  _ Why?” _

“That gun is special, Dean: that’s why they’re on your trail. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“The…  _ demons?” _

The man grins. “You learn fast. You really do remind me of myself,” he murmurs, mostly to himself.

“But why pick  _ me?” _

“Because you remind me of myself,” he repeats, this time slightly louder so Dean is sure to hear. “I can tell what kind of a person you are, and I’ve decided you’re the one I can trust.”

Dean’s face scrunches, uncomprehending. “Yeah, but…  _ me? _ Are you sure you got the right guy?”

“Righteous, self-sacrificing, would go to hell and back for their younger brother… sound familiar?”

Dean blanches.

“I’ve been around a long time, Dean Winchester,” he says, “I don’t just pick the  _ ‘wrong guy’ _ .”

So… he was chosen… for whatever this is. Dean’s mind struggles to wrap around the concept. Is it this man’s fault that he keeps on bumping into demons? What makes this peacemaker so special? What about the White Bandit? Does he know anything about  _ him? _

The man stands, sloshing water with his legs, and brings the shirt he was washing to hang upon a nearby tree branch. Once it is sufficiently spread out, he dries his hands on the shirt he wears, glancing at Dean before doing a double take.

“You have the watch too,” he states. Dean takes a moment to catch up before he realizes he’s staring at the pocket on his duster, where the thick golden chain barely peeks out.

“You know of it?” Dean says cautiously. The man nods, still staring at the chain.

He holds his hand out. “May I see?” The F-brand casts shadows on his forearm.

“You can’t—”

“I know perfectly well what its rules are. May I see?”

Reluctantly, Dean pulls it from his coat pocket…

… And places it without incident in the man’s palm.

Perhaps it was just a trick of the lantern light, but Dean almost thinks he sees the brand on the man’s arm flash when his skin comes in contact with the watch.

_ “What—?” _ Dean gapes, thrown further off-kilter when there’s no burning smell or sizzling to accompany the man.

The belvidere holds it out in front of his face, inspecting the engravings on its lid before opening it to reveal the clock face.

“As I said before, we are very similar, Dean. At one point, it’s possible I could’ve been a Holder myself, but evidently it has chosen you as well. That, and it can’t harm something older than itself."

The lid snaps shut, and the man is already handing it back to Dean. Baffled, he takes it, grounding himself with its weight in his palm.

“This holds a lot of power: use it wisely. You hold little trust in yourself, but remember this: we’ve both chosen you for a reason.”

“You keep saying we are like the same,” Dean says, staring at the pocket watch in his hand before looking up again. “You’ve never told me who you were.”

The man pauses, staring off into the darkness across the river. “I… go by many names here; you probably know me as Cain.”

Dean stands there in silence as he watches the supposed Father of Murder wade back into the water to finish washing his dishes.

* * *

When Benny asks him how he slept, Dean says he slept fine.

He doesn’t say anything about his little biblical meeting down by the riverbank.

* * *

The last night before they reach the ranch, they both have a little too much to drink. They reason it by claiming that they still have so much extra firewater left, and so close to the ranch, there’s no reason they don’t have to finish it all now. The fire burns brightly, warming them through their layers and making them too hot, flushed even stripped down to nothing but a button-down and trousers.

Everything about Dean is very happy. He’s content and at ease, and he’s had enough willow bark and booze combined that his aches don’t hurt too much anymore. His brain feels light and hazy, drifting and swaying closer to the body next to him that laughs and speaks in a low voice to him.

And of course, the curling in his gut, the warmth of the blood that rushes down that has been craving and wanting since Dean was first depraved, gives him a constant rush of anticipation.

Somehow, Benny took notice. Benny always notices, some part of Dean drunkenly giggles, leaning into the glow his company radiates. So when someone (neither of them remember who, or whether it was mutually implied — the semantics don’t really matter) suggests that they be efficient, allow themselves to release that tension together, the other obliges.

Dean’s sitting in his lap. He’s sitting in Benny’s lap with the other’s hand wrapped around him, stroking him tantalizingly slow. Dean’s got his forehead against the other, and even though he has an inkling that Benny is watching him, studying his features for every miniscule reaction, he’s got his eyes closed in bliss, his mouth hanging open as he pants into the space between them.

Impatient for more friction, Dean grinds down and rocks forward, grinning at the little hitch in Benny’s breath. A few more times (Dean’s not counting) and Benny’s other hand is shifting fabric beneath him, pulling himself out. When his hand slides to accommodate both of their cocks against his palm, rubbing slick against each other, they both gasp, jerking into a rhythm that they can both roll into.

Dean is the first one to come, being so wound up over the past month that he orgasms with breathtaking force. His head slips down so that he’s leaning against Benny’s shoulder, thighs quaking as he spends between them, dirtying the skin that has been exposed by ridden-up and unbuttoned shirts.

Benny’s hand is still moving as Dean takes a moment to catch his breath, but he soon lays his own hand on the swelled cock, pushing Benny’s out of the way to take charge himself. He starts stroking at a slower pace than Benny had going, but after a quick decision on impulse, Dean smirks and begins to shuffle down, securing himself between Benny’s thighs.

Seeing the flush cock directly in front of his face should be intimidating, but he can’t help but look at it with amazement, with anticipation. Letting the tip of his nose bump along the shaft as he goes down, he licks a long stripe up the length, tonguing at the ridge under the lead before swirling his tongue around and suckling just the tip. Benny groans, weaving his fingers through Dean’s hair and pulling at the short strands that he can grasp. Dean hums at the feeling, letting himself dip down to take Benny into his mouth and suck.

Benny comes soon after that, partially in Dean’s mouth and partially on his face. Dean spits the little come in his mouth onto the sandy ground beside them before lazily smiling up at Benny, who watches Dean with a euphorically dazed expression.

* * *

When Dean wakes up in the morning and memories of last night flood his conscience, he’s filled with trepidation and pretends to sleep for a while longer.

Finally getting the balls to get up, Dean finds Benny by a few hot coals, warming coffee and breakfast for the two of them. When Benny notices Dean is awake, he smiles his same old smile and hands Dean a mug, letting them fall back into their easy silence they cherish every morning.

Dean almost chides himself when they’re packing up, getting ready for the last few dozen miles of the trip, because of  _ course _ there’s no issue: the help he got from Benny was no different than anything he got from Jessie — an outlet, a release for tension.

Nothing more, and nothing less.


	10. The Sparrow That Flew In Through The Barn Door

They reach the ranch in the middle of the afternoon; as soon as Dean sees the barn and the corrals filled with cattle and horses in the distance, he almost sighs in relief, the comfort of its image a happy sight for sore eyes.

Benny seems almost just as pleased, probably recognizing that this is somewhere he can call home, even if for a short while. Though Dean knows Benny’s not the most educated in ranching, Benny takes the time to make comments here and there about the quality of the cattle, or a horse in particular, obviously trying to drag a reaction out of Dean. Dean smiles and plays along, confirming or correcting when Benny tries to connect the dots with the stories Dean had told of his life on the ranch and of the ranch itself.

Jo is out in one of the corrals, breaking into a yearling she’s been working on for the past couple of months. Bobby is out there with her, watching her from his own horse.

Whistling, he gets both of their attention, waving to them when they look their way. Both he and Benny wait at the fence of the corral as Bobby approaches, Jo following with a little more difficulty.

“You’re back early,” Bobby notes, obviously scanning Dean for injuries as he settles on the nice bruise on Dean’s jaw. “Not that I’m not happy to see you in one piece, but…”

“Sam and Charlie went up to see Ellen, got the kid to promise to collect the auction bonus when they came back down,” Dean immediately reports, avoiding the inevitable. “The rest of the boys are probably staying in town for a few more days.”

Bobby looks skeptical. “Still somethin’ ya ain’t tellin’ me, boy. Can’t imagine Sam and Charlie letting you go without a fight.”

Dean laughs, but there’s no humor behind it. “I’ve had enough of town.”

Andrea huffs behind him, and he remembers that Benny is waiting patiently as they speak. “Met Benny in town,” he continues, jerking his head towards his companion. “We got acquainted, so I brought him back because I thought he—” Dean stops, suddenly feeling sick. He’ll have to get to it at some point,  _ but not right now. _ “Well, we need to let the horses rest up. I’ll tell you once we’ve settled.”

If anything, Bobby looks more concerned, but he lets them go, nudging his horse’s reins away. “Welcome back, Dean.”

They ride to the barn in silence, swaying gently with the padding of their horses’ hooves against the soil. Inside, Dean dismounts and leads Impala to her own stable before directing Benny towards an unused one for Andrea.

“You’re still blamin’ yourself for the kid’s death,” Benny says as they remove their cargo and saddles from their horses. Dean doesn’t say anything.

Everyone around him had been doing their best to distract him, stop him from wallowing in his own guilt, but he  _ knows _ deep down that it’s his fault. The sensation follows him like an itch, persistent and distracting in its discomfort. He heaves his saddle off Impala and brings it to the side; he needs to brush her down, which he’ll probably end up doing later.

“You gotta stop beating yourself up about it, it’s doin’ ya no good,” Benny continues. Dean presses his lips together, steeling himself so he doesn’t burst out impulsively.

“It’s my responsibility,” he says slowly, calmly. “Happened under my watch—both as the auger and as the other person on the night shift—so it’s my responsibility to report and deal with the consequences.”

Benny scoffs. “Uncle Bobby over there seemed more concerned about your wellbeing than any consequences you’re pullin’ outta your ass.”

Juggling saddlebags and hen skins, they meet Jo and Bobby out in the yard. Dean properly introduces them, watching how Benny flaunts his Southern charm as he gives each of them a firm handshake. Jo ends up leading Benny away, showing him to what will be his room in the other, smaller cabin where the rest of the cowhands dwell and giving him a tour of the rest of the homestead. Bobby gestures for Dean to follow him back to their cabin.

“What happened?” Bobby finally asks when they get inside. The squeaky door shuts behind them, and Dean drops his stuff onto one of the beaten sofas.

_ Out with it, _ he berates himself.

“Little Joe’s dead,” he says bitterly, avoiding eye contact with his second father. He can hear how Bobby sighs, how he removes his hair case to run a hand through what’s left of his hair. “The herd stampeded a few days outta Ellsworth, and we were both on night duty. Kid lost his pistol when I tried to get them to start circlin’, and I tried to send him back—I really did, Bobby—but he never made it back. Found him in the mornin’ with old Blue Rocket, trampled and in a washout.”

“God rest his soul,” Bobby murmurs. Dean chances a glance up and sees him staring at his feet, jaw set and looking torn.

“It’s my fault,” he blurts out, desperate to shoulder the blame instead of Bobby. “I was the one responsible, I didn’t try hard enough, I—”

“It’s no one’s fault,” Bobby scolds him. “You’ve been beating yourself up about it this whole time, haven’t you?”

Dean narrows his eyes, biting his lip. He crosses his arms, fingers trying to squeeze bruises into his arm.

“He might’ve been less experienced than you, but he worked hard. He’s been on the ranch for over a year now,” Bobby continues. He’s approaching it from a different angle, which Dean appreciates.

“He was just a  _ kid, _ Bobby. Didn’t deserve…”

Bobby sighs. “Idjit… You’ve blamed yourself enough, I’m not gonna blame you any more. What’s done is done, and there’s not much you can change about yourself to prevent it happening in the future — if anything, I’ll be the one doing that.”

Dean shifts on his feet, carefully minding his bad ankle.  _ This feels like getting off too easy. _

“Stop digging your own grave, idjit. You’ve been through hell and back this past month, you need the break more than anyone I know. Rest up before you try anythin’ else stupid.”

Huffing out a small smile, Dean sways closer to Bobby. “Thanks.” Reading him like he always could, Bobby pulls him into an embrace, holding him close and patting his back. Dean winces.  _ “Fuck: _ ribs still bad,” he chokes out, and Bobby loosens his hold slightly. Dean lets his posture sag as his energy seeps away.

“Is this why you brought that Benny?” Bobby asks when he steps back, letting Dean steady himself. Dean nods. “How long have you known him… a couple days?  _ Who are you and what have you done with Dean Winchester?” _

Dean chuckles. “He helped me out of a rough spot, good man. Used to be a sailor down South, just came up with a Texan drive as their wrangler and found him a chuck-line rider in Ellsworth. Thought he’d be a good addition to our little club.”

“I trust your judgement,” Bobby beams, and then tacks on, “… most of the time. But we can use the help, and he seems like a good person. We won’t have another drive for a long time, but we can have you and Jo show him the ropes.”

“Thanks, Bobby.”

“Now rest up, kid. Can’t have ya out and workin’ when you’ve been through the mill by the skin of your teeth.”

* * *

Night is already starting to fall over the ranch, so Dean goes to light some of the kerosene lamps hanging around the barn. There are crickets chirping all around, outside and hidden in the hay, and, though within the barn it’s filled with the smell of horse and manure, the air is crisp.

With her hooves and face clean, Dean finds the finishing brush, rolling up the short sleeve onto his shoulder that had begun to slip down. Impala busies herself with her salt lick as Dean maneuvers himself around her body, brushing off any remaining dirt and glossing her coat with the softer bristles of the brush. The methodic action of grooming Impala calms Dean, and it brings him a peace of mind he’s missed having in its fullness over the past few weeks.

The only warning he gets is a large  _ whoosh _ of wind outside, and then there’s something large crashing through the partially open barn door, thudding and skidding across the barn floor. Dean straightens and backs away from a startled Impala so quickly that he forgets about his ankle, grabbing onto the edge of the stall to support himself as he winces. When his head whipped over to the commotion, he saw the fleeting instance of something large and white, but nothing else.

Dropping the brush and leaving Impala to calm herself down, Dean exits the stall stumbling out and towards the large…  _ thing _ … that flew into the barn (or at least he thinks it was flying, especially considering what he thinks is the beating of wings that he hears now, like a bird trying to right itself). It’s terribly hard to see, but Dean can feel how his senses sharpen, his heart speeding with adrenaline at the potential threat.

By the time he rounds the corner of the last stall, any noise of the intruder has stopped. It’s not difficult to find the figure that lays still in the pile of hay they store in that corner.

Not quite ready to believe his eyes, Dean reaches for the nearest lamp and treads closer, holding it up so that slight spills across the hidden corner as he holds his breath.

Curled where he landed lies the White Bandit. He’s unconscious now—based on the utter lack of movement—and there’s… there’s  _ blood. _ All over him. It stains his woolly-white poncho, and it’s crusting on his face that isn’t covered by the mask or hood. He’s probably passed out either from the blood loss or the pain.

_ Shit, _ Dean thinks helplessly.  _ Shit, shit, _ shit!  _ What the _ fuck  _ could’ve happened to the Bandit, the Desert Angel, the one who walks through demons like they’re nothing? _ He places the lantern down on a wooden crate, hesitantly approaching to see if there’s anything he can do immediately.

First thing’s first, he needs to stitch him up; however he was injured, he needs to be fixed up soon if he doesn’t want to be left for dead. Dean briefly thinks of where the medical supplies are until he realizes that the hay pile in the barn isn’t an ideal hospital bed:  _ the White Bandit cannot be discovered. _

Taking a step back, Dean surveys his surroundings. The barn loft could provide some shelter from view, but Dean’s not even the one who frequents the barn the most — leaving the White Bandit there would risk someone else finding him, whether or not he keeps quiet. That, and it’s probably near impossible to heave his body up the ladder.

Which leaves his own room. There’s a key to the outside of the door, which would let Dean lock the room while he’s out (but leave the window open, because he’s no kidnapper), and Sammy’s gone up to Abilene, which gives him enough wiggle room to fix up the living legend without too much suspicion.

The only issue is getting the unconscious Bandit there. It’s dark enough that Dean can still make out where he’s going and keep to the shadows, but even so, he can’t risk crossing paths with anyone on his way up to the cabin.

Set on a game plan, he tries covering the White Bandit’s body with as much hay as he can, retrieving a horse blanket to throw on top of him for the moment; concealing him now is only a precaution, because while it’s unlikely for anyone to have any need to be inside the barn at this time of the evening, Dean’s not taking any chances. He brings the kerosene lantern away as well, letting the corner be concealed further by shadows.

Using the fastest hop-skip jog he’s been able to manage with his consistently healing ankle, Dean makes his way out of the barn, trying to do a run down of who would be where on the homestead. Dean had seen Benny just before he’d gone to tend to Impala, and he’d mentioned he was calling an early night to properly settle in, so, him being in the other dwelling, should be a safe bet. The only others currently on the property are Jo, Bobby, and his father, who are probably somewhere in the main cabin.

The front porch is well lit with the lantern hanging from the eaves, so dragging the Bandit around to the back door is probably the best option. That, and the smaller sheds and coverage from the trees offer more of a camouflage through which to be dragging a body.

Dean goes in through the front door since he’s only scouting out his route. Both the sitting room and the kitchen area are quiet, so the only other worry on the first floor is if his father is working in his office.

His footsteps creak on the old floorboards tellingly (which may prove to be an issue later on, but Dean hopes no one’s paying attention too hard) as he steps in front of the door to his father’s office. Gulping, he raises his fist to knock twice.

_ “Come in,” _ his father says from the inside. Dean takes a breath to steel himself before turning the doorknob and pushing open the wooden door.

John is sitting at his desk, facing the door, busy writing something down on paper with his favored ink pen. He finishes off his phrase with a dot and puts his pen down, leaning back in his chair to rub at the bridge of his nose.

“I’m in the middle of working on a few proposals and drafting up another agreement, which I’d like to send out in the morning,” he explains tiredly. “What do you need? Because I can’t promise anything.”

“I…” Dean’s already got what he needs. His gaze flickers across the room. “I wanted to borrow another one of your books… do some reading before I pass out.”

“’Atta boy,” John huffs, amused. “Got a lot of catching up to do.”

“Yessir.”

His father goes back to his work, his pen scratching away on some rough paper before transferring to the crisp, professional paper. Needing to follow through with his word, Dean makes his way behind the desk, legitimately looking for a supernatural book he hasn’t opened yet.

Finding an old-looking one filled with loose papers that presumably contain different incantations and sigils, Dean leaves without a word, shutting the door behind him.  _ Okay… good. _ John is preoccupied with work. As long as he doesn’t become suspicious of whatever he’ll sound like when he’s dragging an unconscious body into the house, Dean  _ should _ have that base covered.

As he makes his way upstairs to his own room (which, as he grips onto the railing to take pressure off his ankle, might also become an issue for later), he can hear the sound of humming drifting from one of the farther rooms. When he makes it to the top landing, he shuffles along and stops in front of the room, knocking on the door as it swings open slightly.

“Hey, Bobby?”

“Whaddya need, son?”

Dean peeks inside the room, leaning against the doorframe. Bobby is at his desk with a bottle of… something, also writing. He’s turned around in his chair, away from the open window that’s leaking in fresh air to give his attention to Dean.

“Writing another letter for Ellen?”

Bobby nods. “Damn disappointing that I couldn’t make it up this year, might try and take a trip up with Jo once the rest of the cowpokes return.”

“I’ll be happy to stay back and watch operations for ya when you leave.”

“Good to hear. Now, I’m assuming you didn’t just come here to interrupt me…” he teases.

_ May as well kill two birds with one stone. _ “Have you seen Jo around?”

“She just went down for a bath… Why?”

“I was…” Dean fumbles.  _ Shit. Think, think!  _ “I was just wondering if she wanted to play cards,” he finishes lamely. Luckily, Bobby doesn’t seem to catch it.

“Well, I was going to work on my whittling after I was done this letter, but—”

“No! No, it’s fine,” Dean waves off, grinning smoothly to conceal the flare in his nerves. “I have, uh, some reading I need to do,” he says, holding up the book he had borrowed from his father’s office, “so if anything, it’ll be later. If you’re not busy then, I’ll give you a holler.”

“Whatever you say,” he rolls his eyes, turning back around to return to his writing. “Just close the door behind ya.”

More than happy to do so, Dean leaves him and makes sure the door is closed properly. With all his bases covered, he stops by his room only to leave the book on the desk, leaving the door ajar so that it’ll be easier to get the Bandit inside.

Dean thuds awkwardly down the stairs, minding his sprain while still going as fast as he can, leaving back out through the front door. It’s slightly darker outside, but having left the kerosene lamps on in the barn, he can still make out exactly where he needs to go. (Not that it matters  _ too _ much — growing up on the property means he can navigate almost anywhere with his eyes shut). His ankle is being a pain in the ass, but the limp is almost automatic at this point, even if there’s almost no pain emanating from the thing.

Slipping inside, he grabs the kerosene lamp and brings it back to the hay pile corner, relieved to see that everything is unmoved. Leaving it on a stool, he makes some last rounds around the barn, double-checking that all of the horse supplies are quickly put away, that Impala has safely calmed down, and that all of the other lamps are extinguished before returning to his task at hand.

He removes the blanket from the White Bandit and hangs it on one of the wooden dividers. Crouching down to have a closer look, Dean brushes away the spare straw that he used to conceal the body.

It looks like there’s still bleeding, based on how the blood smeared around the gash just underneath the mask feels wet to the touch. Dean brings two fingers to the Bandit’s neck, pushing aside the white bandana to find a pulse. He presses into the skin, looking for a vein, until he finally finds the hint of a weak beat. Shifting his hand down, he spreads his fingers wide against his chest, trying his damnedest to detect the slightest rise and fall. Realizing that trying to feel it through all of the Bandit’s layers is not the smartest idea, he presses his lips together and brings his hand against the Bandit’s nose, feeling the small puff of air that breezes over his skin.

Carrying the body is also going to prove to be an issue. The White Bandit is no small fellow, and while Dean is confident that he can manage it, determining the most efficient manner is what makes him pause.

Brushing aside the poncho, Dean can see that there’s blood seeping through his left side, partially covered by torn cloth.  _ Okay… _ Dean’s right shoulder is stronger anyhow. Kneeling down to level himself, he throws the man (or legend… but bleeding like this, Dean considers him human enough) over his shoulder, feeling how the Bandit’s arms dangle limply against his back. He can feel how the side with the gash—hanging off his shoulder so that he doesn’t put too much pressure on the wound—is wet against his bare arm.  _ Shit… shit, the wound will bleed out like this, _ he thinks — he’ll have to be quick. Dean weaves one arm between the Bandit’s leg and wraps one of the limp arms around his neck, holding them to his chest so that he can hold him in place.

Standing up is also an issue. The man is much heavier than he looks (though Dean can manage him nevertheless,  _ obviously _ ), so pistoning himself up on one leg proves to be more of a workout than he’d like it to be. When he’s on his own two feet and tries to hitch the Bandit further onto his shoulder, he suddenly becomes aware of just how much pressure the weight is putting onto his bad ribs, and he’s winded with the wave of pain that hits him. Controlling his breathing to the best of his ability, Dean takes his first limping step forward, eternally grateful that all of the weight is on the other side of his body from his sprained ankle.

The entire experience is excruciating, every step causing dizzying pain that makes him grit his teeth and push back tears. Other than the adrenaline that is undoubtedly coursing throughout his system, the only thing keeping him going is the fact that he’s carrying the White  _ fucking _ Bandit on his shoulder, who’s going to bleed out pretty soon if Dean isn’t quick. Briefly, he wonders if their roles were reversed when Dean blacked out in that prairie fire, but the moment of thought is wiped away with a fresh wave of pain as he steps forward again.

Trekking from shadow to shadow proves to take much longer than heading directly to the front porch—like Dean did before—especially with the dead weight on his shoulders. That, and for the strangest reason, despite the fact that he’s very sure that the Bandit is slung over his shoulders, it still feels like there’s some drag, forcing Dean to push through like a working ox. Time is added every time his foot catches a stone or a dip in the ground, making him struggle to maintain his balance as a fresh spike of pain shoots up his leg.

Thank god the cowhand dwelling is dark, which means Benny’s probably asleep already, so Dean can haul himself to the side of their cabin with less concern about being spotted. The siding of the cabin also lets him lean some of the Bandit’s weight against it with every step, letting him move at a fractionally quicker pace.

Just as he’s rounding a corner, he both hears and sees the bath shed behind the cabin open, Jo stepping out in loose boy clothes with a towel wrapped around her hair. Gasping without meaning to, Dean steps back into the shadows before Jo has time to look his way. It’s way too easy to let the White Bandit fall from his shoulders into the taller grass by the house, but it strains all of his injuries, and he lets slip an  _ “ow, fuck” _ before he thinks better of it.

“Dean? Is that you?”

_ Fuck. _

Jo sounds like she’s stopped in her step. Dean could stay where he is, hide and stay silent and pretend he isn’t there, but Jo will check. Plus, the Bandit’s white poncho sticks out like a sore thumb, and he has to keep Jo from peeking around the corner at all costs.

Stepping out into the light from the bath shed, he smiles wide, hands open in a surrendering gesture. “You caught me,” he wheezes before desperately trying to conceal his shortness of breath.

Her brow furrows, clashing with her strained smile as confusion clouds her amusement. “What are you doing over there?”

_ Good question. _ “I, uhm… I was just finishing up with Impala in the barn, wasn’t lookin’ where I was goin’, and re-sprained the damn thing,” he throws together, pointing at his bad ankle. Jo looks down at it, and he suddenly worries if she can see a sliver of the Bandit behind him or not. He shuffles forward slightly, as if to talk with her from a closer distance.

“We need to put you on bed rest,” she jokes good-naturedly. Then, she raises her eyebrows. “So then explain why you’re coming in through the  _ back _ door.”

_ Shit. _ He laughs awkwardly, prolonging his time to think. “I… The, uh… The medical supplies. They’re in the kitchen.”

“Uh huh.” Her free hand latches onto her hip as she looks at him pointedly. Oh.  _ Oh. _

“I swear!” he says quickly, holding up his hand. “Just… just medical supplies.” He gives her an exaggerated smile with his teeth, and she rolls her eyes at him.

“You know I bring in a change of clothes with me, right?”

Dean groans, looking to the sky with exasperation.  _ “No, that’s not it!” _ She seems skeptical, and, when it comes down to it, her suspecting him of trying to peek is probably better than her accidentally finding out about the myth that’s currently unconscious behind him. He sighs, and she seems to take that as an answer. “Listen. It’s been a long day and I’ve been traveling for way too long: could you leave the bath? I’ll probably go in in a bit.” He probably needs it, but he’ll have to be quick… and he can’t exactly circumvent the event either, now that he’s promised her the chore.

“Whatever you say,” she hums, and Dean just feels defeated. “Thanks, Dean.”

He huffs.  _ “Anything for her majesty.” _ Jo smacks him before finally departing, heading back inside. Dean stands his ground, leaning towards the bath shed as if going to check it out just in case she turns around.

Once the door is securely shut, Dean breathes a sigh of relief, almost ready to collapse. Remembering how the White Bandit is almost definitely bleeding out on the ground, he swivels on his heel and falls to a knee, heaving the figure back onto his shoulders with dizzying exertion.

The few steps up to the backdoor already prove strenuous, slow working with one step at a time as he lifts all the weight against the force of gravity. He has to pause at the landing, making sure he can take in enough air without his ribs protesting too much.

Sending out a silent prayer that he doesn’t encounter any more issues, he pushes the door open. Before he steps in completely, he surveys the two rooms in front of him: still empty. John’s office door remains closed, with light coming from beneath. Closing his eyes in brief thanks, Dean nudges the door open further, being careful to make sure that none of the Bandit’s limbs get caught in the doorway. Once he’s through, he closes the door with his hip and leans back against the door to catch his breath.

Dean doesn’t have much time: every second he’s got the White Bandit out in the open only increases the risk of someone finding him. His heart is hammering, both from exertion and the extreme lengths he’s going through to conceal the Bandit.

Biting his lip to stop any unnecessary noises, Dean toes off his boots at the door, ignoring the pain that seizes his ankles as he works on that foot, hoping that treading in socked feet will mute some of the noise. He tries to walk as normally as possible to the stairs, navigating around furniture so that he doesn’t accidentally knock something over and create a commotion. Dean’s fully aware that his footsteps are more sluggish than usual, but all he can do now is pray that the others in the house aren’t nitpicky about how he’s walking around the cabin.

Reaching the foot of the stairs, Dean steals another breather, glaring at the steps with determination.  _ Twelve steps. _ Twelve steps, and then his door is first on the left. He breathes out of his mouth slowly, psyching himself up to start the hike.

The journey takes too long. Every minute that passes, he’s filled with the anxiety that simmers in his blood, that prickles under his skin. Everything aches, and his muscles quake, threaten to give up, but he pushes on, determined to get back to his room if it’s the last thing he does. ( _ Damn: _ who allowed the Bandit to pack  _ this much _ extra weight?)

Almost all the way up, when he’s leaning against the wall for support, he notices that the door to Jo’ and Charlie’s room is closed, which means Jo is probably busy in there with whatever she’s doing. Dean considers himself lucky that she hasn’t emerged yet, and desperately hopes that she won’t in the time that it takes him to get to his own room. Bobby’s door is also still closed, and, when he listens as he pauses to catch his breath, he can hear humming coming from the other side.  _ All good signs. _

With one foot on the top landing, Dean feels a surge of energy rush through him as he pulls himself up, stumbling toward his own, ajar door. In his excitement, he accidentally bumps the White Bandit’s leg against the doorframe, but he squeezes through without much other hindrance, seeing the light at the end of the tunnel as he presses forward. Reaching his own bed, he sits himself down before easing the Bandit onto his mattress, freeing his shoulders of their burden. All at once, it’s so much easier to breathe, and despite the fact that the White Bandit doesn’t look to be in the most comfortable position, Dean got him here, and that’s all that matters.

Heaving himself back up, he grabs a kerosene lamp and lights it, filling the room with light before he goes to close the door, securing a chair underneath the doorknob for good measure — hopefully it won’t come down to someone finding his jammed door questionable.

It’s a miracle, really, that he got up here safely. Dean returns to the White Bandit, lying still on Dean’s bed, and maneuvers him so that he’s lying down in a more comfortable position.

Well, first thing’s first, he’s got to assess the damage. Checking to see if his pulse is still there (it is), Dean lifts him gently to remove the stained poncho from underneath him so he can pull the entire thing over his head. Already realizing that his blankets might suffer the same fate, he rolls over the Bandit’s body until he can extract his blankets and shove them to the side, searching for an old towel to slip under where the worst of the bleeding is. (There are still some streaks of blood that made it onto one of the lighter sheets, but it’s something Dean can clean out later.)

With the dirtied poncho thrown onto the chair that blocks the door, Dean finds out that the White Bandit has messy black hair, probably rumpled from being under the hood. He reaches out to smooth it down automatically but stops when he notices the ugly gash right at his hairline, which has been seeping blood down onto the navy-blue mask that covers his eyes. The slash down his cheekbone isn’t nearly as bad, but it’ll scar, and whatever did it must’ve pushed up the mask slightly, given how the fabric creases right above it.

Underneath the poncho, it looks like… it looks like he’s wearing work clothes. He’s wearing his same tan duster coat as he was before (also bloodied), but trousers held up by suspenders, and a not-so-white shirt that’s completely slashed at his bloodied side.

Dean takes special care in removing the duster, also having to lift his body up and against his shoulder to wrestle it out from underneath him. Once it and the suspenders join the poncho on the chair, Dean continues to rip away the already-unsalvageable cotton t-shirt to extract it with ease — if anything, he can use the “cleaner” parts as extra bandaging.

What’s interesting about the gash on his side is that… even though it’s deep, letting blood constantly seep through, it looks like the flesh was almost…  _ burned _ through. When Dean checks the other two wounds, he finds that they’re in a similar state. That, and no matter where Dean’s eyes flicker across the Bandit’s bare chest and what’s exposed of his face… he can’t find any bruising. Deciding not to question it for the moment, he thanks the fact that the burnt areas probably prevented the bleeding from being any worse.

As he pulls off the Bandit’s boots and socks, his gaze flickers to the rest of the man with indecision. There’s a strange part of him that wants to remove his pants, be thorough with his care, but there’s no gashes in the fabric, and since it seems the man can’t bruise, there would be no point in removing his pants.  _ Absolutely no point at all. _

Then there’s another part of Dean that itches to reach for the mask, pull it away from the Bandit’s eyes and see who’s hiding behind the fabric. And no one would have to know. He could just take a peek, and not even the Bandit would know.

Physically shaking his head to stamp out the impulse, he stands up, acknowledging that he needs the medical supplies to fix the man up properly. Head spinning with temptation, he stumbles over to a shelf, moving a bandage roll out of the way to grab the key to the room.

Moving the chair from underneath the doorknob, he locks the door behind him, hobbling down to the kitchen to look for the supplies he needs.

And… they’re not in the cupboard they’re supposed to be.

With slightly more panic, Dean rummages around different cupboards, searching for any trace of the medical supplies. After looking through the same cupboard for the third time, he sits back and curses, trying to think of where they could possible be.  _ They always keep a med kit in the house somewhere. _

Getting back to his feet, Dean grabs his boots that had been abandoned by the backdoor and makes his way upstairs, mind whirring at how to make his request seem the least suspicious.

He knocks at Bobby’s door hesitantly, and the humming stops immediately. At a gruff  _ “yes?”, _ Dean pokes his head in.

“Any chance you know where the med supplies are?” he asks sheepishly. Bobby doesn’t stop in his whittling of a… well, Dean’s not too sure yet.

“What have you done now, boy?”

“Nothing! Nothing, just… well, I re-sprained my ankle again…”

_ “Of course you did,” _ he mutters, before saying: “Last time I checked, you were hogging them in your room.”

“I didn’t see—”

“Do you want me to go hold your hand and look for you?”

_ Definitely not. _ “No, I’ll… I’ll go look again.”

_ “Idjit,” _ is the last thing Dean hears before he closes the door behind him.

And lo and behold, they’re right where Dean found the key to his room. He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs before barring the door again and getting down to business.

The most difficult part of the ordeal is trying to stitch up the gashes with only the kerosene lantern to guide him. He cleans the area and his hands with alcohol (they’ve found in the past that it’s more effective than water) so he can see exactly what he’s doing without too many extra fluids in the way. Though the wound in the Bandit’s side is nasty, it doesn’t seem to have nicked any guts, which is always a relief. When the Bandit’s side is finally sewn together, Dean dresses it and wraps it up to give it even more protection. The fact that the Bandit is still passed out is probably a pretty solid indicator of the pain these odd wounds are dealing him.

Moving up to deal with the cuts on his face, Dean pauses yet again, hand hovering over the mask.

He  _ could _ just do it: the Bandit still hasn’t woken. He could see the face of his savior, the powerful one that had demons fearing for their lives, the living legend that people sang of in fear.

… But what would he  _ think? _ What if he woke up to see Dean staring back at him,  _ knowing? _ He didn’t mention anything about himself when they first met, only said he was nothing but a “wanderer”. There’s probably a reason he keeps his identity locked so deep within him, and here Dean is, ready to break that trust he wants to believe they have between them.

And somehow, that’s reason enough.

Biting his lip, he tears his gaze away from the black eyelashes that peek from behind the mask, closed off from the world. He’s here to repay a debt: both Cas’s and the White Bandit’s. Letting the Bandit keep his façade is the least he can do.

Dean cleans the Bandit’s face as best as he can, wiping the alcohol rag underneath the lip of where the mask begins. These gashes require less stitches, but he dresses them all the same, letting any residual blood be soaked up by their bandages.

With nothing left to do but wait for him to wake up, Dean cleans up the dirtied supplies. He’ll probably end up spending a lot of his time waiting by scrubbing bloodstains from the Bandit’s clothes, but for now, he has a bath he needs to use.

Locking the door behind him, he leaves the healing myth to sleep.

* * *

Dean is at his desk, too worked up to sleep, memorizing one of the demon trap sigils from his father’s book when the White Bandit first stirs. It’s slow at first, dazed and confused, before it becomes panicked, trying to escape the bed while being hindered by the pain of his wounds. Dean is up in a flash, wincing over his ankle but holding his hands out calmingly, murmuring soothing words to stop him from making too much noise.

“Hey!  _ Hey, _ you’re safe, you’re okay,” he coaxes, approaching the bedside like one would a wild animal. “I promise. Stitched you back up myself.”

When the Bandit processes Dean in front of him, his eyes widen so much that the clear blue is evident even in the light of the kerosene lantern. At least he’s stopped moving now. Frozen, in fact.

“You crashed into our barn half-dead, so I carried you up to my room and patched you up,” Dean explains, not approaching him any closer, just in case. “It took a hell of a lot of effort, but I’m the only one who knows you’re here… which is why you  _ need _ to be quiet.” Dean jerks his head back to the door, gesturing to the others probably sleeping on the same floor.

The Bandit stares at him for a long while before he slumps over slightly, like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

“Yeah… take the time you need to heal up, I think I can keep you hidden a few days at least,” Dean smiles wearily. “You… You  _ recognize _ me… right?” There’s a small part of him that worries, that fears that he’s the only one who remembers, that in the grand scheme of things, his life was just one of thousands to the great White Bandit.

Scrunching his face, he’s about to respond, mouth half-open, when he stops. A hand comes up to touch at his mask, as if just realizing it’s still there, and then he nods slowly.

A wave of relief washes over Dean. “Good,” he smiles, unbidden, “that’s… that’s good.”

Moving again, he goes to search for some willow bark and a glass of water he had prepared. When he brings them to the Bandit, Dean sees that he’s settled back into his spot, letting the blankets cover his body. His eyes are already drooping again, too.

“Take this: you’ll probably want it,” Dean says, handing over the bark and water. “I’m going to prepare you something to eat so you can have some extra fuel in there to heal stuff up. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Unfortunately, having to set a fire hot enough to warm anything up doesn’t take too soon—especially in the middle of the night—but Dean rushes through the motions, obtaining a bowl of brothy soup and some bread for his patient upstairs.

When he returns, handing the food to the Bandit, he finds him propped up with his shoulder against the wall, blearily looking at his clothes hanging up by the window.

“I tried washing out the bloodstains from them, and they’re still a bit wet,” Dean tells him once the food is out of his hands. “I also tried to wash you down a bit, I hope you don’t mind.” He gestures to the bucket he had lugged up after his bath, a cleaning rag hanging over its rim. The White Bandit nods absently, spitting out his willow bark to the side before sluggishly digging into his meal.

Dean watches him eat in silence, giving him the peace and quiet he probably needs to collect his thoughts. Part of him feels… anticipation, like he’s waiting to be judged. When the Bandit catches him looking, Dean glances away, guilty.

Finished eating, Dean takes the dishes for him, placing them on the desk behind himself. Obviously nodding off, the Bandit slides back into his covers, not even trying to fight his exhaustion.  _ He feels safe, _ Dean realizes with surprise, and is taken aback with how the insight fills his chest with warmth.

“Thanks,” he blurts out. The White Bandit manages to crack his eyes open slightly towards Dean, so he rushes to continue. “I… I never got to thank you last time… when you saved me from that fire. Fed me, found my Baby… Never got to say it either when you saved me by Wagon Mound. I was there, y’know. Didn’t think I was gonna get outta there. Thanks… Thank you, for that.”

There’s a slight look of surprise at the mention of Wagon Mound, but when he shuts his eyes again, he looks pleased with himself. His lips move, but the words are so quiet that they never reach Dean’s ears.

When Dean finally falls asleep, he’s lying on his side in his brother’s bed, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of the living legend’s bare and breathing chest.


	11. Weep, For They Have Followed You Home

_ The little sun that crept through each crevice between the barn walls cast deep shadows everywhere it didn’t touch, making it difficult for Dean to see anything that wasn’t out in the open. He stood from the stool he was crouched upon to find a match to light the kerosene lamp that was hanging from a nail on a nearby wooden post. Shaking the flame out before it reached his finger, he dropped the curling match into the loose hay beneath his feet, returning to the horse to which he had been attending just previously. _

_ Dean would have to go back in soon, before it got too dark —he already made dinner and made sure Sammy was fed, but he had to make sure that the kid would take his nose out of a book long enough to fall asleep—but he liked it out here. Sometimes it felt like the only peace and quiet he could get, without Sammy pestering him, his father asking him for favors, or Bobby sending him out for more chores. Working with the horses gave him something to which he could put his mind, something that actually calmed his constantly whirring thoughts as he returned to the repetitive motions of cleaning out each hoof (back right, up, clean, down, front right, up, clean, down…) and running each brush over their coats until they glistened. _

_ The horse Dean was currently working on was a bit trickier. Though they bred the horses they already owned rather than captured wild ones (breaking a wild bronc was on Dean’s bucket list nevertheless), the younger, unbroken yearlings could still be feisty if they wanted to — such as the one Dean was working on at the moment. He’d been grassed pretty badly just this past week—his back still hurt like a bitch—but the satisfaction he got when his stubbornness persisted over that of the horse’s? Unparalleled. There was a reason he spent so much time around the horses, and why they all respected him, shifting accordingly and straightening their ears as he approached like  _ he _ was the head of the herd. _

_ He startled when something crashed into the barn door, something padding across the wooden floorboards like a mouse scurrying to find someplace to hide. Dean stumbled back at the jarring interruption of his stillness, automatically avoiding how the breaking yearling thrashed against the rope tied to his stall, holding him in place. The rungs of the ladder up to the hay loft creaked, but Dean was too slow to catch more than an outline of a boot disappearing above the ledge. _

_ Blood coursed through his veins and he could hear his every breath in his ears. He had no idea if the intruder knew Dean was even there, but he treaded on his toes, placing his footing where he knew the planks didn’t creak. The horses around him remained startled from the sudden noise, shifting their weight and whinnying, but they would calm down soon enough, and their commotion gave Dean somewhat of a cover. _

_ With one hand holding up the kerosene lantern, Dean pulled himself up the ladder, scrambling up with ease until he reached the top. Both feet planted and his lantern held out in front of himself, he stood at the edge of the loft, searching for any trace of the intruder. _

_ It was too hard to hear for ragged breaths on top of all the horses bustling around underneath them, so Dean crept over to the side where he and Sammy had piled a good portion of the hay into one large stack. There was a gap just between the stack of hay and the worn wall of the barn, which Dean rounded and flooded with light. _

_ Backed up and crouched against the wall, half-hidden behind the straw, was… a little girl. She could be no older than Sammy was, long and braided hair a fiery red, and bright eyes wide and shining. Trembling, she bared her teeth, holding out a knife in self defence with the hand that wasn’t wrapped around her abdomen, soaked with a burgundy that contrasted horribly with her hair. _

_ “Oh—Hey!  _ Hey!” _ Dean said, holding out his hand in surrender, trying to calm her so that he wouldn’t get stabbed. Though, something about the way she held the knife, something about the way her expression was laced with fear, made him think that she probably couldn’t do much more than threaten. _

_ Setting the kerosene lantern on the floor between them, he crouched down to try and be at her eye level, watching as she tried to back away further against the wall. Dean knew he wouldn’t be able to completely wash away the concern from his face, but he did his best to relax his expression and give her a comforting smile. _

_ “Hey,” he murmured again, soothingly. “I need you to put you knife down, can you do that for me?” _

_ She narrowed her eyes and tightened her grip on the handle, making her arm shake with exertion. “Why would I do that?” _

_ Dean bit his lip.  _ Just like the horses, _ he told himself, feeling simmering patience flow through him.  _ Reason with her.  _ “Because I can’t help you if you’re gonna stab me.” _

_ Frowning, she looked him up and down. The knife twisted slightly as she rubbed her fingers against the handle in thought, but it remained pointed at Dean. _

_ “Why would you help me?” she finally said. Her voice was weaker now, more vulnerable. Dean took a deep breath and kept on smiling. _

_ “Because you’re bleeding,” he stated simply. “If we don’t get it cleaned out soon, you might get an infection.” _

_ As soon as he mentioned the blood, he saw how her hand tightened minusculely around her wound. Her face remained hardened, but Dean could also see how quickly she was breathing, still in a fight-or-flight mindset. _

_ “Do you promise not to tell on me?” she asked, dropping her hand so that the knife dragged against the floorboards. _

_ Dean’s eyebrows raised, wondering briefly to what she was possibly inferring, but nodded after a moment. “Cross my heart and hope to die.” _

_ When she offered him a shaky smile in response, his heart soared. _

_ The energy that coursed within him shifted slightly, clearing his head so that he could plan out the best course of action. “We need to get you to the cabin; I’ll take care of you in my room,” he informed her, and she nodded silently. “I’ll have to explain to Sammy at some point—that’s my younger brother… he’s a lot like you, with the long hair—” he joked, miming it on himself with one hand. The girl’s smile appeared again, and Dean internally fist pumped. “But you can sleep in my bed.” _

_ “What about you?” _

_ “Me?” he grinned, winking at her. “Well, I have to stay up and protect you all night!” She rolled her eyes but giggled all the same. “C’mon, let’s get you out of here.” _

_ To his delight, she stood up obediently and followed him, only staggering slightly when she got to her feet. Dean was by her side in a second, letting her grip tightly onto his shirt as she regained her balance. He worried his lip again, knowing that her reaction was from the blood loss. _

_ When they finally descended the ladder, Dean noticed the wobble in her step and immediately offered to carry her piggy-back all the way. At first, the girl hesitated, but after Dean teased her about stabbing him in the back, she giggled again and promised to not do so. He could feel the warm blood from her thin arm streak his cheek as she hugged him, clinging to stay on, and it only egged him to move faster. Blowing out the kerosene lamp, he left the barn and walked as quickly as he could back to the cabin. (He had tried jogging for a few seconds before the girl whimpered in pain, automatically forcing Dean to cease in the motion.) _

_ The cabin, luckily, was mostly empty when Dean made his way in through the front door — approaching the building, he had caught wafts of a campfire. Having looked a little closer, he could see how the cabin stood dark against the flickering woods that bordered the creek behind it, and he could hear the distant chatter of Rufus, Bobby, his father, and whichever other cowhands that were currently lodging at the ranch. Usually, Dean would hang around with them, dragging stories out of the newer cowboys and trying to snatch as many beers as he could, but at the moment, he had more important matter on his hands. _

_ Inside, Sammy sat at the table, his back to Dean and his nose undoubtedly buried in a book. Dean could feel how the girl tensed at the sight of him, so Dean rubbed circles into her leg with his thumb, reassuring her quietly. _

_ “Not out with the big boys, Samantha?” he called out as he made his way to the staircase. The girl held her breath, but Dean knew Sammy better than anything. _

_ … Because all the response he got was his little brother flipping the bird at him, never once letting his attention stray from the tome splayed out across the table. _

_ Once he got to his and Sammy’s room, Dean shut the door behind them, easing the girl down gently before pulling out the wooden desk chair for her to sit on. She sat tentatively, her arm returning to its place around her abdomen. _

_ With a lamp lit, he took a moment to look down at himself, just to see how much damage was done to his own appearance. There’s some blood streaked on his not-so-white-anymore shirt, but he won’t bother changing it until after he’s done stitching up the poor girl. _

_ “What’s your name?” he asked idly, bumbling around the room in search for the med supplies he last used to bandage Sammy’s scraped knees. She didn’t answer for a while, and he could feel her gaze following him around the room. _

_ “Charlie,” she said at last. _

_ “Charlie,” he reiterated, doing his best to commit it to memory before nodding. “Dean,” he introduced himself, pausing in what he was doing to flash her a grin. Finding the bottle of alcohol, he tossed it into the kit and returned to her. “Dean Winchester. It’s nice to meet you, Charlie.” _

_ “It’s nice to meet you too, Dean.” _

_ “Can you lift your shirt up for me?” _

_ She complied. As the fabric brushed over her wound, she gasped and bit her lip, but stayed still nonetheless. _

_ A bullet hole. There was almost too much blood for Dean to be able to tell before, and her arm was constantly in the way, but he knew what he saw in front of him. Luckily, it seemed the bullet passed clean through, and, as starved as Charlie’s gaunt figure was, it only skirted the fleshy side of her hip. Manageable, as long as he cleaned it up correctly. _

_ “I’m gonna have to stitch it up,” he told her slowly. Already, the rag he was pressing to her side was starting to bleed through, but he hoped it was already beginning to subside. Charlie gulped before nodding her assertion. _

_ “So! How old are you, Charlie?” Dean continued cheerfully, starting with cleaning the wound and the area around it. She winced at the sharp sting of the alcohol, but Dean could see her determination shine through. _

_ “Eleven,” she bit out and then yelped, biting her lip to keep silent from thereon. Dean clenched his teeth, just as unhappy with seeing her in pain, but endeavoured to distract her as best as he could. _

_ “Eleven? I thought you were older than that,” he said. He switched out the rag and gestured for her to hold it in place while he prepared the suture equipment. “Sammy’s only a year older than you. Big book nerd, though, but only for the boring stuff. I’m sixteen. Don’t read as much as him ‘cause I’m always out with the horses.” _

_ Dean told her about the horses, about Sammy, about Bobby and Dad and Rufus and all the other cowhands outside around the campfire, and Charlie took it all in stride, handling the stitching better than Sammy could when he got banged up real bad. When it was said and done, dressed and bandaged and washed, Charlie smiled at him, weary but relieved. _

_ “And all it took was a little blood, sweat, and tears,” Dean said as he cleaned up the supplies, wiping his hands off as much as possible. He rummaged around his dresser, looking for the smallest shirt he could find. “You’ll probably want to change into this, since yours is kinda ruined—” _

“Dean?”

_ Dean froze at the voice calling from downstairs. _

_ “Yeah?” he hollered back, schooling his voice to be as casual as possible. _

_ “Come down here for a moment.” _

_ Instantly, his pulse began to bound like a jackrabbit, pulling him back into his cautious state. Glancing over his shoulder, he could see Charlie sitting in the chair, stiffened so that her back was ramrod straight. _

_ “Gimme a sec,” he said, tossing the shirt to Charlie. She stared at him with wide eyes, so he bit his lip and nodded, not quite sure of who he was reassuring. _

_ Dean made a step towards the door before he saw how Charlie reached out, pointing at his shirt.  _ Right. Shit. _ Barely leaving himself time to think, he threw off his bloodied shirt and grabbed the first one in his drawer that he could reach, pulling it over his head as he walked down the hallway. Licking his hand, he rubbed at his jaw, hoping to God that it would rub away any trace of blood that Charlie’s arm had smeared there. _

_ From the highest stair where he could see what was going on, Dean stopped, hands clasped dutifully behind his back (also to hide the bloodstains). At the front door, he could see his father talking with… an official. Not quite a sheriff, but the image of law and order. Dean internally composed himself. _

_ “What did you need, sir?” he queried, both to his father and the official. _

_ John cocked his head towards the man. “He was wonderin’ if you saw a kid runnin’ or hide somewhere on the property. Told ‘im you were out in the barn last.” _

_ “Bright red hair, can’t miss her,” the official said, squinting at him. “Foxy little bitch will steal anything, so you should keep yer eye out.” _

_ Dean shook his head… carefully, staying calm and collected. “No, sir, not at all. Just me an’ the horses.” _

_ “Right. Well, tell me if ya see anythin’.” _

_ Dean nodded. “Will do.” _

_ “Thank you, Dean,” his father waved him away, and, stopping himself from sighing in relief, Dean turned around (careful about where he placed his bloodied hands) and retreated back up the stairs. _

_ Closing the door behind him, Dean was about to smile and deliver the good news when he froze, staring at Charlie before him. _

_ She stood in front of the dingy mirror they kept in their room, knife in one hand and braid in the other. Loose hairs were scattered around her feet, and the considerably shortened strands flared out from behind her ears. Dean took a moment to drink it all in, to process how drastically she had changed her appearance in the minute he was away. _

_ “Charlie…” he started, unable to tear his gaze away from the bright red braid in her hand. Taking a deep breath, he gave her a small smile. “I dealt with them: you should be safe now.” _

_ She’s still frozen in the middle of the room, caught like a deer in one’s path. The shirt, big on her despite it being one of Sammy’s older ones, billowed around her like a short dress. _

_ “I can fix it for you,” Dean offered, When he took a step closer, she pulled the braid back, so he shook his head. “No, I mean… You cut it uneven. I’ve been cutting Sammy’s hair since he was still in diapers, even if it doesn’t seem like it. I promise I won’t mess up.” _

_ Charlie’s shoulders dropped, easing away the last of the tension from her posture. Dean guided her to his bed to rest before leaving to grab some scissors, heat up some leftovers, and wash himself completely of blood. When he returned, her eyes were already drooping, but he shoved a bowl of stew into her hands, which she happily began to devour as he snipped away at her new haircut. _

_ “So,” he hummed, running his fingers down the strands to ease out any remaining knots. “Are you going to tell me why there was an official looking for you?” _

_ Charlie stopped eating. She held the bowl in her lap, spoon balanced against the side to stop it from slipping into her meal. “Are you going to give me up?” _

_ Dean sighed. He moved his free hand down her neck, resting it at her shoulder to massage the muscle there. “I already crossed my heart.” They stayed there in silence for a few seconds until Dean continued snipping. “He said you stole something. What did you steal?” _

_ She fiddled with the sides of her bowl. “Some apples. Beef jerky. Chocolate.” She bowed her head. “And money.” _

_ Dean wanted to punch something. The official was probably gone by then, but he wanted to run out after him and knock out his lights, beat him within an inch of death. Charlie had stolen  _ food _ … and this crazy son of a bitch had shot her for it. He stopped cutting her hair in fear of accidentally snipping off too much. _

_ “I’ve stolen before,” he whispered. Charlie’s head perked up at the admission, which gave Dean the strength to push through. “Dad would bring me an’ Sammy to town for business, leave us in the hotel and forget about us. Sometimes he’s come back reeking of booze, way after Sammy would fall asleep, sometimes wouldn’t come back at all, for a few days. He’d take most of the money with him, so I’d sneak into the general at night so Sammy could have something to eat, maybe some money if we were gonna be kicked out of the room.” He glanced down, unaware that he’d gotten lost in his own reminiscing, and found Charlie turned in her seat, staring at him with wide eyes. _

_ “My parents died,” she blurted out suddenly, and Dean’s stomach sinks. “Two years ago. Stagecoach accident.” _

_ “I’m… sorry to hear about that,” he said.  _ She was an orphan, just trying to get by. _ Dean knew better than to pity his family situation, but now he had no excuse. “My mom died when I was four,” he added on, because apparently, they were sharing trauma now. “S’why I’ve been takin’ care of Sammy all these years.” _

_ “I’m sorry about your mom.” _

_ “It’s alright: it was a long time ago.” _

_ “But it still hurts, doesn’t it?” _

_ Dean stilled, really processing her words. Just how often did he think of her, wishing she were there next to him, to help him, to soothe him, to let him know that everything was okay? How often did he lie in bed, curled up with his eyes squeezed shut, praying that the memory of her image and sweet voice wouldn’t fade away? _

_ “Yes,” he agreed, “it still does.” He ran a hand through her hair, pushing her bangs back and letting his fingers fall to her shoulder, brushing away strands that he’d sweep up once she was asleep. “C’mon, let’s get you into bed.” _

_ Taking her empty bowl and the scissors in one hand, he opened up the blankets of his bed and fluffed up his pillow invitingly. Charlie sat on the mattress to tug off her boots while Dean set what he was carrying onto the desk. Turning back around, he watched as Charlie wiggled herself under the covers, settling herself unsurely as if it had been a very long time since she’d slept in a soft bed. Dean went to sit at her side, the mattress dipping under his weight, and tucked her in. _

_ “How long can I stay here?” she asked sleepily. Her eyes were already drooping again, and the words out of her mouth were slurred, like she actually had to make an effort to say them. _

_ Dean’s heart ached. “What do you mean, ‘stay here’?” he smirked, brushing the hair out of her eyes with a finger. “I’m gonna steal you. You’re the little sister I never wanted.” She laughed softly at that, eyelashes fluttering lazily against her cheeks. _

_ Blearily, she managed to open her eyes just a crack, gazing up at Dean. Her lips moved, but whatever words spilled out were too soft for him to hear. Pretending he knew her response, Dean nodded, hesitation for a breath before leaning forward and pressing a kiss to her forehead, lingering into the touch. When he sat back again, he could see a pretty smile dancing on her lips, and it made his heart want to burst. _

_ He sat there at her side, watching the rise and fall of her chest slow to the steady lull of slumber. _

__

* * *

Dean sits in the same position he did all those years ago, watching the peaceful slumber of a different face.

Back then, Dean had gone downstairs, having let Sammy stay up for far too long, and explained everything that had happened to him. Sammy immediately sided with Dean, and while getting ready for bed, watched Charlie’s sleeping figure with doe-like curiosity. He whispered far too loudly, but Charlie slept on, blissfully grateful for a roof over her head. Sam insisted that Dean sleep with him in his bed that night, even if Dean later woke on the floor, Sammy’s long legs sprawled across where Dean had fallen asleep.

John and Bobby, to Dean’s surprise, had taken the situation in stride. He had brought it up to them carefully in the morning, ready to defend Charlie at any cost, but they merely laughed at the situation and cursed out the official under their breaths, welcoming Charlie into the little family with open arms. Charlie couldn’t stop smiling for weeks.

The White Bandit would probably not be so lucky to follow the same fate. Dean stares at how his breath hitches in his sleep, eyes twitching under their lids as he dreams.

_ Firstly, _ Dean jokingly reasons,  _ the Bandit is a bit too old to be adopted. _ Though, more importantly, he doubts they’d be compatible: only Dean is intimately familiar with the true nature of the Bandit, so he has no idea how John or Bobby would possibly react… and then there is the Bandit himself, who probably has no business with them and his own problems to which he must attend.

Stopping himself from outwardly frowning, Dean finds himself reaching out, skirting his fingers dangerously around the mask.  _ That’s a whole other issue in itself.  _ With his identity so carefully concealed, the White Bandit has built a wall that further separates him from Dean. The tips of his fingers trace the ridges in the fabric, so lightly that it shouldn’t be detected.

_ What is he thinking? _ Dean stops himself, dragging his hand so that it rests on the pillow beside the Bandit’s head. Why does  _ Dean _ keep trying to put himself in the equation? Because he so  _ happened _ to be saved by this legend,  _ twice? _ The second time, the Bandit didn’t even know he was there. Dean huffs, frustrated with himself.  _ I’m taking care of him as a repayment, _ Dean reminds himself, and then corrects himself:  _ no _ … a good deed. Good for all the people the Bandit will continue to save, because… because that’s what he  _ does, _ isn’t it?

_ So what about all the rumors? _ a creeping part of him wonders, which he shoves away to the side almost immediately. The least he can do is  _ believe _ in the guy.

His hand migrates back to the Bandit’s face again.  _ Checking on his wounds _ is Dean’s excuse.

The dressings were already changed this morning, but they both remain clean, which is a good sign. Dean uses his index finger to gently pry hairs that got caught underneath the forehead bandage and smooths them back. It has probably been a while since the man was able to properly wash, but it seems that his hair is in a constant state of chaos anyhow. The idle thought amuses him, and Dean feels like an idiot, smiling like this to himself.

The other bandage also looks fine, but Dean takes the opportunity to smooth it down, tucking the corner under the navy-blue mask. He assumes leaving the mask on for that long feels uncomfortable, but maybe’s the Bandit is used to it. That, or it can’t be nearly as uncomfortable as the other gashes on his skin.

There’s stubble growing across his jaw, already darker than it was the night before (or Dean is just imagining things). He lets his hand slip from the cheek bandage onto the man’s skin to feel the growth, how it prickles under his touch. He can feel how a muscle in the man’s jaw twitches in his sleep, shifting invisibly underneath his skin.

_ Bang! _ cracks a gunshot from outside the window, and Dean’s hand flies away. He’s on his feet in a second. Usually, he’s not so bothered by gunfire, as his father is constantly testing prototypes that he’s working on: it’s the shouting that follows that worried him.

By some miracle, the White Bandit sleeps on; he stirs in his place, frowning slightly. Acknowledging that he’s fine (and that Dean wasn’t caught… checking his bandages), he reaches for the Colt and the pouch with its bullets (which are both laying on the desk — before Dean was struck with the memory of Charlie’s appearance, he had been studying the bullets, trying to see why they differ from others and if it is possible to replicate them), tucking the bag into his jeans pocket as he slips his feet into his boots.

Not even worrying about the door, Dean bolts out into the hallway as fast as he can, thudding down the stairs with little mind for his limp. All of the sounds outside blur into one large cacophony that Dean can’t piece apart, so, with his head whirring at an equally unintelligible rate, he bursts outside and drinks in the scene before him.

It’s bad. It’s real bad. If he hadn’t seen something similar before, he wouldn’t have believed it… and even now, he doesn’t want to.

Bobby and Jo are out in what can unfortunately be called the front lines. There’s a steady flow of people—no,  _ demons _ —that press forward from every direction, and both daughter and father ride around the corrals, simultaneously trying to herd panicking animals and fend away approaching vessels.

_ How does Dean know they’re demons? _ He’s… not too sure. There’s a crackle in the air, like when you’re up too high before a thunderstorm hits. The energy sizzles around him and makes the very hairs on his arms stand up. They could be anything, strictly speaking, but the raw evil that seeps from their very presence has Dean unsurprised at the first flicker of black eyes, the first cloud of ashy smoke that saturates itself into the ground.

Despite the best of Bobby’ and Jo’s efforts, the wail of the animals is deafening, and Dean watches blankly as cattle fall to the ground, tossed carelessly to the side by demons and trampled underneath the stampede. Every once in a while, it seems like the demons are stopped by… some invisible border (Dean wants to guess salt: he remembers his father telling him that it was the other primary substance that can keep demons at bay), but then they’ll breach a layer and flood through, gradually swarming closer. Bobby’s beard is bristling fiercely, probably muttering exorcism after exorcism, as every minute or so, a few more clouds of smoke spill from intruders’ throats as the vessels collapse to the ground. Whatever’s keeping Bobby and Jo on their feet is a mystery to Dean — perhaps it has something to do with the salt, or some protection sigil that’s probably been hidden around the property all his damn life.

By the barn, Dean finally catches sight of his father, edging around the corner to continue painting large white sigils on the wooden walls. The range of sigils Dean’s never seen before impresses him, but the serious expression on his father only encourages his nerves.

“Whatta sight to wake up to… ain’t that right, brother?”

Dean glances to the side just as he steps off the porch, finding Benny approaching him at a jog.

“You don’t look too concerned,” Dean notes, surprised at his own level of clarity. Benny laughs, and Dean notices how he’s got his bags slung over his shoulder.

“I’ve bumped into the not-so-natural back in the day,” he grins. “Nothin’ quite like this, though.”

“Yeah, not like this,” Dean murmurs. He feels the coolness of the Colt in his hand, and he twists it around with his fingers, scanning the area for the closest-approaching intruders.

“Might not wanna get near there,” Benny says, and it’s only then that Dean processes the smoke, the vague crackling barely discernible underneath the din. His head whips over to the dwelling, and Benny’s slightly-sooty packs suddenly make sense.

_ “Son of a bitch,” _ Dean mutters under his breath, watching as smoke pours from the old cowhands’ cabin — while it’s not engulfed yet, there’s definitely irreparable damage at this point. He sends out a mental thanks that only five of them are on the ranch right now, and that Benny looks alright, having been staying in said cabin.

Some part of him aches, torn between an agonizing hurt and the despairing feeling of emptiness. The ranch, the outpost… his home, and everything he knew… it’s all being pillaged,  _ and for what? _

Dean stops spinning the peacemaker in his hand, catching it so that his fingers clasp it steadily.

_ All for _ this?

He stares down at it, far too long for one amidst a battlefield.  _ Cain _ … he’d said that they were on his trail because he has the Colt. That it was  _ his duty _ to keep it safe, to not let it be taken into the wrong hands.

Dean allows himself a flash of anger: he doesn’t care much for himself (or at least that’s what he tells himself), but because the father of murder himself wanted to try and clean up his reputation,  _ Dean is gonna have to pay for it? _ What are Sam and Charlie going to think, ready to retire home after a long journey only to find it smouldering in ashes? What of the rest of the cowboys? Those lone chuck-line riders that would never admit it but time and time again, returned to the Singer ranch?

_ Well, fuck it then. _ If this gun is so special, if it is so sought after, then it better do  _ some _ good.

Dean reaches for the pouch and takes out a few bullets, juggling them in his hand as he loads them into the cylinder. As he clicks it back into place and pulls back the hammer, Benny’s attention is finally drawn to the firearm.

“Shootin’ ‘em’s no good—”

“I know, Benny,” he says. “Trust me:  _ I know.” _

Dean raises his shooting arm, scanning for a test subject. Spotting what probably used to be just your average cowboy nearing the main cabin, Dean aims and pulls the trigger.

The bullet exits with a smooth crack from the barrel, traveling the perfect vector Dean had intended. They both watch as it intercepts the demon in its path, staggering him to the side with its force as it hits him just above the ear. Instead of the usual sneer and attention a bullet brings to Dean, the demon stays swaying in its spot, looking stricken as it crackles with orange lightning — just like the ones that were unlucky enough to find themselves at the White Bandit’s mercy.

When the demon finally crumples into an unmoving pile on the ground, Benny whistles.

“That’s some black-eyed Susan you got there, brother.”

Dean grimaces, glad that it at least proves to be of some use. “Tell me about it.” With the demon dead after the gunfire, attention is immediately drawn to Dean, and he can start to see them closing in from every side. “C’mon: let’s try to lead ‘em away from the cabin.”

“I dunno ‘bout you, but I’m not too fond of waltzin’ back into a burnin’ building.”

“The other side, then. Just… away.”

They make their way slowly across the yard, but not enough far enough to really get anywhere. Dean’s too concerned about hitting his targets (which, so far, have been successful) due to the limited amount of bullets in his possession, but there are so many demons flooding in from every side that he doesn’t have much time to do more than shuffle a few steps.

_ “Shit, _ this ain’t gonna work,” he mutters, dropping his arm down so he can try to reload the cylinder again as quickly as possible. “We’re gonna have to make a run for it.”

Benny stares at him incredulously.  _ “To?” _

“Barn. Looks like the safest place on the property right now.” As much as he hates having to distance himself from where the White Bandit is recovering, he just hopes that the Bandit will be able to fend for himself, and that the protection will be able to give him a decent vantage point.

In the distance, he sees the horse Jo’s riding panic too wildly, and she’s airborne. Dean shouts something in her direction, he’s not too sure what, but he can tell he’s aiming for one of the bastards that’s getting just a smidge too close to where she fell.

Before he can shoot, however, there’s an iron grip that clasps his wrist, fingers digging into his bare forearm so roughly that it might bruise. Dean’s ready to whirl around and shout at Benny when he sees the stony face of his father looking back at him.

_ “Where did you get that.” _ It’s a command. The icy tone of voice is something Dean almost never hears, but it chills him even in the heat of the moment.

Dean tries to pull his arm back. The fingers hold on tighter.

_ “Where did you get that,” _ John repeats. “I asked you a question, and you will respond,  _ boy.” _ Dean winces. Something curls up in his stomach, tightening the air flow into his lungs.

“It was given to me,” he bites out. “For safekeeping.”

John’s eye twitches. “And you didn’t think to tell me? Answer me.”

“I was told I couldn’t let it get into the wrong hands.” Dean can tell that John picks up on whatever petty implication he meant with his words; he’ll definitely have a bruise now.

“Dean, I have been looking for this revolver for over a  _ decade, _ since I knew it existed.  _ Do you even know what it—” _

Dean squints his eyes. “I  _ do, _ actually.” This is news to him, but John is using a tone like he expected Dean to know this shit already.

_ “—Easy!” _ is all Dean hears Benny shout (presumably to warn them) before he’s flung in the opposite direction from his father, skidding across the ground. He manages to keep a grasp on the Colt, but his finger slips on the trigger, accidentally shooting at the barn and barely missing his father. John slams against the side of the barn so hard that he damages one of the sigils he had painted before slumping to the ground. Benny—miraculously—is still standing where he was before but is now backing away with caution from the commotion.

Dean is trapped against the ground, like tendrils from hell’s depths are trying to pull him through the dirt. There are at least a dozen demons closing in on him, and, having failed to notice it before due to fighting with his father, only now does he see how there are a handful of others making their way inside of the cabin.  _ They know, _ is all he can think.

The Colt is barely trapped underneath his wrist, but with the control over his body that he knows they have, it won’t stay there for long. He can barely even twitch a finger, much less grip onto the firearm with enough force. Dean wants to be stubborn, he wants to persist and to devise a clever way out of this bad box, but helplessness gradually floods him as the light-headedness from the pain in his ribs fills his entire conscience.

And then, it’s gone. The pressure against his limbs ceases, and the clarity that floods his brain with the release is almost as dizzying as the pain itself.

It takes Dean another second to process that this relief directly followed an explosion behind him. When he struggles to his feet, turning to seek out the cause, he finds a burning hole in the corner of the cabin, evidently deceased demons spread across the wreckage. In the center of the chaos stands the White Bandit in all of his glory, down to the woolen poncho that flutters with the air flow. His hood is pulled up and the white bandana has returned to conceal the lower half of his face, but the intensity and harshness he exudes despite having no visible facial expression rivals in it intimidation against that of the demons’.

Beaming so wide that his cheeks hurt, Dean stands proudly, renewed with confidence and eager to fight by the legend’s side. The demons closer to Dean were merely stunned by the force of… whatever the White Bandit did, stuck between going after Dean and the Bandit. Dean takes the extra time to pull back the hammer of the peacemaker so that its cylinder slides into place, aiming and shooting down an approaching demon in the Bandit’s blind spot.

What Dean does not expect is how the White Bandit freezes at the gunshot, turning as if in slow motion (at least, it feels that way between the two of them) to face Dean and the fizzling demon from the corner of his eye. Dean barely catches how his eyes linger on the revolver in Dean’s hand, how his eyes widen in…  _ no, _ no… the White Bandit doesn’t  _ fear. _

But he doesn’t praise Dean. He doesn’t even acknowledge the help. No, he  _ turns tail and flees, _ taking out most of the remaining demons that so happen to be in his path. He moves at an inhuman speed, almost a blur of white as he runs away from Dean without so much a goodbye, much less a thanks.

Dean doesn’t let himself be disappointed. He can’t let himself be crushed. Gulping down the rising despair, he empties the rest of the cylinder into the last standing demons, giving the ranch silence at last.

It almost feels too quiet now that everything has come to a standstill. Now that everything has ceased.

“Dean.”

Dean floats around, like he’s in a trance. His father had pulled himself up from the ground, holding an arm to his chest and standing a few paces away from his son.

“What was he doing here.”

His father’s voice is too empty. Dean can’t discern anything from it. It’s dangerous grounds, but Dean doesn’t have the strength to resist.

“He helped—” he mumbles, almost too softly to be heard, but is interrupted anyhow.

“Do you have any idea who that is.”

Something is wrong. Something is very,  _ very _ wrong. The demons are gone, the fires can be put out, but Dean feels sicker than he has been all day.

“He’s the White Bandit,” he says, carefully. “He’s the one that saved us.”

“No, Dean. He’s the one that killed your mother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is about the halfway point I had in the plot outline, how we feelin'??? :D


	12. Dodge City

Dean doesn’t speak to his father after the incident. Hell, he hardly speaks to anyone.

Jo, thank the lord, turns out to be alright. She’s got some nasty scrapes, a bad back, and a sprained wrist, but she’ll live. Turns out when she got grassed, she was able to roll out of the way in time and crawl back to the barn, weaving around the commotion, and Bobby kept the demon following her at bay with rock salt in his shotgun.

Benny, though slightly shaken from the incident, also seems fine. He managed to walk out of the incident relatively unscathed, but despite everything that had occurred, he ended up deciding to stay at the ranch to help rebuild.

“Aside from sailin’, they got me in that shipyard more than once,” he tells Dean as they all patch up their wounds in the undamaged area of the kitchen and sitting room. “How much different can a house be?”

Benny—because of  _ course _ he recognized him right away—only asks about the White Bandit a few times, offhandedly. When he notices the way Dean brushes off the question, skirting the discussion to avoid answering, he must see something that Dean thought he wasn’t expressing and mercifully drops the subject altogether.

He acts surprised when he finds Dean searching through the remains of his and Sammy’s room, packing up his belongings so that they’re ready for riding.

“I can’t stay here no longer,” Dean explains, grabbing his tattered duster and throwing it over his shoulder. He only had time to sew up some of the slits from the glass bottle explosion that felt so long ago now; maybe he’ll find some more time on the road.

“So you’re just gonna up and leave the ranch like this?” Benny says incredulously. He moves to try and stand in front of Dean’s line of sight, but Dean turns to a different set of drawers. “You’re gonna be a coward and leave everyone else to clean up as you crawl away to your safe space—”

A surge of anger pulses through Dean, and he slams his hand down onto the desktop so hard that his palm stings.  _ “Dammit, _ Benny!” he roars, blunt nails scraping against and digging into the wood as his fingers curl inwards. “Why do you  _ think _ they were here in the first place?” When he chances a glance over to his friend, he sees Benny leaning against the doorframe, features hardened and arms crossed.

“They’re the ones the White Bandit fights.” It’s a realization, Dean later thinks, but in his current fury, he takes it as an answer.

_ “No! _ I mean,  _ yes, _ and no— _ sometimes _ —but they weren’t here for him, don’tcha get it?”

“Hm. You think it’s  _ your _ fault.”

“I  _ know,”  _ Dean corrects. Taking a deep breath, he removes his hand from the desktop with great effort. Most of the damage from the explosion is on the beds, but Dean goes to sift through the wreckage anyhow.

“You gotta stop blamin’ everythin’ on yourself—”

“Do you not  _ understand?” _ he grits out. “I’m not just blamin’ myself for nothin’ here. They’re after the peacemaker. I  _ know, _ because the first time I met those sons of bitches, they tried to take it from me.  _ I know, _ because the one who gave it to me told me that’s why they’ve been on my trail.”

Benny gives him blessed silence for a moment, processing his words. “Then why don’t you give up the responsibility? Hide it somewhere and call it a day?”

“Because I can’t let it get into the wrong hands. By the way he said it, a lot of lives would be at risk if I lost the damn thing.”

“Why you? Why’d he put all that damn responsibility on  _ you?” _

Dean doesn’t say anything, because he’s not quite sure of the answer either.

There’s not a lot Dean actually needs: he’s not a materialistic person. A lot of his possessions—aside from his clothing and camping supplies, which are all easily replaceable—fit in the pockets of his duster, which is miraculously unscathed. At the moment, he’s mainly searching for the extra ballast he hides around the room for safekeeping.

“We just want to make sure you’re okay,” Benny says after a while. Dean scoffs bitterly.

_ “What _ … even my  _ dad?” _

_ “Dean—” _

“Don’t pretend you weren’t there. He’s probably disowned me by now.”

“Don’t be a drama queen—”

“A drama queen?  _ A drama queen?” _ The rage bubbles and froths within him again, and it takes everything not to throw something. He shoves more clothes inside his bag forcefully instead. “I’m  _ sorry, _ but I don’t go around  _ trying _ to betray my own kin.”

The blow must have hit, because Benny doesn’t immediately retort. Dean blows out air from his mouth, struggling to clear his head and finish packing.

_ “Contrary to popular belief, _ everyone here cares about you, brother,” Benny finally says. “We want to help you in any way that we can; it’s not—”

_ “It’s not my fault?” _ Dean finishes for him, laughing humorlessly. “Nice try, but it ain’t gonna work. Jo was  _ lucky _ to get away with the scrapes she got — I’m not gonna sit around and wait for them to come back for me.”

Dean’s repeating motions around the room at this point. He’s already collected all of his clothing that remains undamaged, so he continues to scavenge for any extra medical supplies and checks what of Sammy’s stuff is still intact.

“Your father,” Benny starts, and Dean closes his eyes, praying for strength. “He mentioned—”

“I’m not talking about this right now, Benny.”

“What did he mean, when he said… the Bandit—”

_ “Out, _ Benny,” he growls, his tone rumbling at a dangerous level.

“—killed your mother?”

_ “Out!” _ Dean shouts, the force of his volume like a punch. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Benny let his arms fall and take a step back, like the reaction was enough to startle him.

“I was just gonna say—”

“Get  _ out!” _ he yells. He’s getting to his feet, drifting towards his friend, but he has no idea what he intends to do. “Fucking  _ get out!” _

Benny, smart as he is, leaves at long last, but Dean finds himself stumbling in his direction, the pent-up kinetic energy driving him for release. Blinded and drowning with negative emotion he cannot expel, he feels his arm swing back with potential before he drives his fist forward and into the doorframe, hearing as the wood splinters under the force. The old scars and healing bruises on his knuckles split, and the red that bleeds to the surface of his skin washes away only a fragment of that negative emotion with it.

Falling to a crouch onto his haunches, Dean buries his face into his hands, seeking desperately to center himself as he’s faced once again with a revelation he refuses to consider.

* * *

“Where are you gonna go?” Jo asks him from where she sits, propped up on the least damaged sofa.

Dean wants to lie. He wants to lie and make sure they don’t come looking for him when he’s gone. Follow him knocking at death’s door. But in reality…

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I  _ don’t know.” _

* * *

Impala, as much as the incident spooked her, is luckily unharmed. By the look of it, the sigils that remain graffitied on every surface of the barn were effective, as none of the animals within its perimeters were harmed (and that a lot of the animals outside were herded into the barn for safety). Dean pointedly avoids wondering if Impala will ever get to see her stall again as he packs her saddlebags, snagging a few extra supplies so that he’ll be able to properly attend to her maintenance if they don’t end up staying in town.

The slow ride out lets Dean survey the damage of the ranch to a slightly better extent. Close to where Dean passes, many of the animals that didn’t make it out alive are piled out in the sun, having yet of which to be disposed. The body count is concerningly high, cutting Bobby’s herd by a significant amount, and Dean thinks he can even see satanic symbols and markings etched into the flesh of some of the corpses. He also spots some of the horses in the mix; when he sees Jo’s yearling, he looks away, deciding that it’s better not to go searching for which ones were lost. The remaining cattle are in one of the further pastures, grazing and unaffected by the stench of death that Dean is valiantly attempting not to breathe in.

Dean doesn’t actually know where he’s headed — not even a direction in mind. He simply lets Impala lead him to the Santa Fe trail, mindlessly letting his hips sway to the groove of her step.

When they reach the trail, having followed the creek before powering across La Jornada, the day is already drawing to a close. Dean has no reason to be pushing Impala hard anymore, now that the Jornada stretch is passed, since his main objective is merely to draw danger away from his loved ones. Therefore, when Dean finds the first sign of the Arkansas river, he stops for the night, letting Impala graze lazily and drink to her heart’s content.

He sits by the small fire he constructed while Impala feasted, having already made sure she was safely tied to a nearby tree for the night. All he could snag before he left was some simple ingredients for a soup, so he sits there, watching the boiling pot bring chunks of meat, potatoes, and carrots tumbling to the surface before disappearing again.

It’s been a while since Dean has been alone like this. He rode back from Ellsworth with Benny, and on the way there, he had all the cowhands with him, Charlie and Sam included. Sure, he went to Santa Fe by himself for a much longer stretch of time, but at least he had a destination. He knew where he was going, and he knew how to get back.

_ Now? _ Now, Dean is floating. With no big goal in the future to run towards, he already thought he was floating, drifting through his life merely to see where it will take him. Hell, he even  _ craved _ the freedom longer trips like these gave him. But now, with his anchor removed, he’s finally aware of what floating is  _ really _ like.

Dean’s hand drifts to his pocket, absently feeling for the golden pocket watch. He holds it in his hand, feeling its weight and every miniscule groove under his touch. When he brings it out into the open, he cups it with his palms, entranced with how the firelight dances off its surface.

It’s strange, how it feels. Dean can’t put a finger on why, exactly, but if he thinks too hard about it, he can almost imagine the watch thrumming, alive in his palm with inconceivable energy. As always, the watch is warm to the touch, feeling like it’s almost reaching out to soothe him from his troubles.

Curling his fingers around it in a reciprocal embrace, he bows his head, laughing to himself.  _ Is he trying to find solace in an inanimate object now? _ Nevertheless, he gives it one last squeeze before putting it away — by now, his meal is probably ready.

No matter how much salt he adds without stupidly depleting his ration, it tastes bland. The soup doesn’t taste like anything more than sustenance. Mechanically, he spoons it into his mouth and chews, falling into a rhythm so that he doesn’t have to think about what he’s doing.

The demons probably won’t stop tracking him until they either have possession of the Colt or have Dean dead… probably both.  _ Does this mean he’ll be on the run for the rest of his life? Can’t stay anywhere, can’t risk developing relationships that would put others in danger? _ And what about  _ “keeping it safe” _ ? Is he supposed to just…  _ impose his curse unto someone else, _ seek out a protégé? He doesn’t want to imagine condemning someone he could trust enough to deem worthy of protecting the Colt in the first place.

And to think… his father knew of these bastards all along. By the way he reacted during the raid, Dean would place bets on Bobby being aware of the existence of the supernatural as well.  _ They supposedly met hunting, huh, _ Dean remembers, almost laughing at the change of meaning in the words.

Well… being  _ aware _ of their existence and being  _ actively chased _ by those sons of bitches are two entirely different things. From what John had told him, they had only encountered one at a time in the past, a couple at most. The least Dean can do is try to make sure they would never have to go through something as horrific again.

Even the stars are obscured from him, hiding between sparse clouds and the leaves of the tree branch that hangs over his head. Dean curls further into himself, wrapped up in his hen skins, doing his best to conserve heat as the night breeze chills whatever is uncovered.

* * *

He passes the Fort Atkinson ruins around noon, and at that point he decides he may as well continue and stop by Dodge City, find somewhere to go from there.

Stiler’s big promises are well on their way to being followed, since Dean had last passed the town site: the foundations of a few buildings are already being set down, men hard at work constructing their wooden skeletons. Dean leads Impala right up to the bar tent, tying her lead to the wooden log bar out front.

It’s not late at all, but Dean brushes against a few soldiers from Fort Dodge leaving the tent, laughing boisterously as they complain about having to return to their posts. The shade of the tent cools the air—only slightly, given how many people are milling about inside—enough that Dean removes his hat.

“Whatcha got for bait?” he says, leaning against the long table that has been set up as the bar. The bar dog, who is leaning against the tabletop on his forearms, shifts his attention to Dean.

“There’ll be beans for all the shoot that ponies up in a few hours, but I got nuthin’ warmer than airtights.”

“Got any jerky?”

“Aye, that I do.”

Dean places some coins on the table and slides them over. “That’ll do for now. Throw in a beer for me, will ya?” The bar dog nods and takes his pay, stuffing it into a pocket before turning to search through his stock.

There is one other patron at the bar table beside Dean, who he had barely noticed when he first walked in — Dean only takes notice of the stranger now, with how his attention wanders as he waits for his order. The man’s shoulders are hunched, and his hat is pulled low as if to hide his face… it’s almost like he’s carefully trying to  _ avoid _ Dean.

“If you wanted somethin’, all you had to do was ask,” Dean says. He frowns when the man continues to not acknowledge him. Usually, Dean is a patient person, but with everything wearing him a bit thin at the moment, the stranger’s disrespect gets on his nerves.

“Got too much wax in those ears?” Dean says a little louder, attracting the idle attention of a few customers around them. If possible, the man’s shoulders hitch up a little higher before he sighs in defeat, bringing his hands up to rub at his face.

“Hello, Dean,” says a familiar voice, to which Dean scrunches his face as he attempts to place it. With his chin propped up on his opposite hand, he turns his face slightly so he can eye Dean for a few seconds.

_ “… Cas?” _ Dean whispers incredulously, fine with letting the extra attention around them disperse. He barely notices how the bar dog slides him a bottle and some jerky, leaving it in front of where Dean leans against the table. “Not that I’m not glad to see you so soon, but is everything alright?”

Cas purses his lips, staring straight out ahead of himself. He stays like that for almost a beat too long before he answers, his voice monotone: “I’m fine.”

Something is sinking inside of Dean, something that he scarcely didn’t believe was still there. He laughs (just a bit too nervously), trying to brush the bluntness of Cas’s tone away. “Do I smell or somethin’?” All he gets is a quick glance from Cas, but it’s more than he had before. Dean barely avoids pitying himself for thinking of that as an achievement.  _ “… Cas?” _ It’s too late to pretend that his voice sounds stronger than however  _ that _ came out.

Tiny muscles in Cas’s face shift, which would have been unnoticeable if Dean hadn’t been paying such close attention for  _ any _ expression. He seems… conflicted. Over what, Dean can’t even begin to imagine. Doesn’t.

Cas’s eyebrows lift, and everything about him relaxes slightly. “You smell fine, Dean,” he relents, playing along. Dean hates himself for how widely he beams. It almost completely falls when Cas continues, however: “What do you want from me?”

Dean wracks his brain for what could have possibly gotten him into Cas’s bad books. Did he regret tending to Dean back in Ellsworth? Did carrying him back to the hotel spread some rumor? Was he just weirdly strict about  _ “paying back” _ his  _ “debt” _ ? Struggling to maintain his upbeat and hospitable mood feels like struggling to hold water in one’s hands.

“A conversation, Cas. That’s all I want.” And, because he’s feeling especially self-deprecating: “If I’m really that irritating, you can just say so.”

Cas squints at him. His head doesn’t tilt far from its position, but it’s enough for his piercingly blue eyes to dig deep into Dean’s soul.

“Something’s happened,” is all he says. Dean isn’t sure if he’s talking about  _ him, _ or himself, or perhaps just in general, so he ends up responding with the first thing that comes to mind.

“Lots has happened.” Dean reaches for his drink for the first time since he’s arrived, granting himself a decent gulp. “You already saw me at what I thought was my lowest point… I’m just trying not to let that happen again.”

Cas’s gaze flickers to the tabletop, almost… guilty. It’s difficult to tell exactly what he’s thinking with how little he moves.

“… How bad?” he murmurs, not looking Dean in the eye. Dean doesn’t want to say anything at all, normally despising giving away personal information about himself, but his need to continue talking to the one person he still can overpowers his hesitance.

“The  _ ‘my father is not on speaking terms with me’ _ , the  _ ‘I’ve put all my loved ones in danger so I can never see them again’ _ kind,” he bites out, too tired to properly censor what is coming out of his mouth. “Not to mention the fact that the one time I try to  _ save _ someone—pay my own debt—all they do is turn tail and run away. I thought…” he trails off, because it’s stupid. It’s  _ stupid _ hoping to be anything of import to a legend.

Dean is startled to notice how Cas’s shoulders are swivelled to face him, the hand that had been propping up his face now resting on the table and the other in his lap. His eyes are wide, attentively waiting for Dean to continue.

Instead, Dean is distracted by the healing scar that trails along Cas’s cheekbone that had been hidden by his hand, clear above his clean-shaven jaw.  _ That’s new, _ Dean can’t help but think. Cas’s lips are moving, but Dean doesn’t hear what he’s saying, his gaze trailing between the pink flesh of the scar and the rosy tint of his lips. When he becomes aware of himself again, Dean’s eyes flicker back up to Cas’s.

“What?”

Cas narrows his eyes questioningly. “You thought  _ what?” _

_ Oh. _ Dean rocks on his feet. “Nothin’. It doesn’t matter.”

It’s strange to see how the man struggles to find words, the twitch of his mouth indicating that he’s more frustrated with himself than anything.  _ What got him so interested? Was it the debt speech? _

“You were going to say something,” Cas says stubbornly.

_ Well, whatever. _ As long as it holds his attention, even if it’s Dean reading out his personal diary.

“I just thought that if I’m saved twice by the guy, he’d be a little more thankful. Instead, I try to help us both out of a bad box, and then I getta watch  _ him _ leave too.” He reaches for another hearty swig of his beer. “I’m more than happy to go find new company if you also want me to leave,” he says, because he’s very good at destroying the little he has left.

Much to his surprise, Cas stays. He stays, but it almost looks like he didn’t even hear Dean’s last comment in the first place, lost in his own thoughts. Cas stares down at the tabletop absently, jaw clenched.

“Nice scar ya got there,” Dean continues, because it doesn’t look like Cas is going to anytime soon. Cas’s attention whips back to Dean, his hand flying up to cover the wound. Dean laughs. “Lemme guess… stupid accident?”

Cas remains frozen for a moment, staring back at Dean. Dean wonders if he brought up a touchy subject when Cas clears his throat, gradually setting down his hand again with an odd expression.

“Work accident,” he pieces together slowly. When Dean raises an eyebrow, he barely elaborates with: “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

Dean grins. “Happens to the best of us.” And then, something clicks within his mind. “Wait…  _ work. _ The job you found when you were in Ellsworth.” Cas nods. “What was it?”

“For the railroad. The one headed for Santa Fe.”  _ That must be the one that will pass through Dodge City. _

“Are you still working there?”

He nods. “I was on… an errand run.”

“Can I come?”

Cas’s brow furrows. “To the… errand run?”

Dean smiles, shaking his head.  _ “No, _ to work on the railroad.” When Cas’s confused disposition doesn’t dissipate, Dean continues. “With everything that’s happened, I’m kinda floating right now. To hide out somewhere like the railroad camp while working for the extra pay is kinda what I’m lookin’ for.”

“I don’t know if they have any position openings—”

“I’ll do anything,” Dean convinces him. “Don’t even care if they pay me less. I just need to distract myself with something before I need to head out.”

“Head out…?”

Dean shrugs. “Got on the bad side of some bad eggs. Just need somethin’ to throw ‘em off my scent for a while.”

Cas goes silent again. He peers at Dean, though, rather than sizing him up, it’s like he’s at war with himself.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay?”

He nods. “I’m heading back up tomorrow morning. You can come along and ask the supervisor for work.”

Dean grins, flashing his teeth at the man. “Is it strange to say that that’s the best news I’ve heard in a while?”

He’s rewarded with a small smile in return. “Just a bit pitiful.” Dean laughs, grabbing a hold of the fleeting feeling the moment brings him and clings tight.

“Here I am, putting myself even further into your debt,” Dean only half-teases. “Say… how does a drink sound?”

Dean is way too enamoured by the way the corner of Cas’s mouth twitches even further upwards. “I think that sounds… alright.”

He knows it can’t last. He knows that with the Colt’s weight burning in his pocket, he can’t drift too near to anybody, but he’s living in the moment. Though Cas’s previous demeanour still eludes him, he’s remained at Dean’s side, not flinching away when Dean strays close enough that their elbows brush.

Yet again, Cas has leant him a helping hand, giving Dean the small anchor he needs before the current pulls him away.


	13. Railroad Front

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **!!!** [Here's the censored version of this chapter.](https://docs.google.com/document/d/181HAUdEFbPGIM0MIgIAwIpB1HoSO626Af8zKg6JQgU4/edit?usp=sharing) **!!!**

With the railroad camp about a day’s easy ride away, Dean is really starting to believe that Stiler isn’t all just talk when he claims that the railroad will reach Dodge City by fall — hell, he’d even estimate that it’ll get there before October.

Cas rides on a borrowed horse, saying that his own had been left at the camp. She’s a pretty thing, but definitely lazier than Impala, used to scouting with supervisors rather than full-day trips.

Nonetheless, Cas is a silent guy—which Dean can respect—and doesn’t do much to encourage conversation, so instead of talking air, Dean resorts to his habitual whistling and singing, running through each tune if only to keep the words fresh in his memory. Every so often, when he glances to the side, he’ll catch Cas’s eyes darting away from him, and the mere implication makes Dean grin. Though, with the number of times he ends up checking to see if he’s being watched (it almost becomes somewhat of a little game between them, if unconscious), he’d be a hypocrite to deny really taking the time to drink in the image of his companion: how the brim of his hat case drapes shade over his face, how his tan duster flutters around his thighs with the momentum of the ride, how he treats his borrowed horse with gentle guidance.

Dean hates how much he’s missed this. His drifting up to Dodge City only took two days, but the impact of realizing how alone he was had been significant. Dean revels in the mere company of the quiet man at his side, still listening intently to his song after all these hours.

“I never did say thank you, did I?” he mentions once he’s finished the sea chanty Benny had taught him. Cas blinks in surprise, turning his head to face him.

“For what?”

Dean laughs. “For this,” he waves his hand around idly, between them. “For letting me come along for work. For letting me have that conversation.”

Cas raises his eyebrows. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Listen, buddy: I’m tryna work on my gratefulness, here. Is it working?”

Cas looks to the front, biting his lip as if to quell his amusement. “If that’s the case, then you’re very welcome, Dean.”

Dean grins like the cat that got the cream — not even the scorching sun on their backs can extinguish his good spirits.

Cas introduces Dean to his supervisor just before dinner, when the sun is too low for the workers to continue building. Dean flaunts his charm in his words, and he suspects it also has something to do with his manners and the color of his skin, but he leaves the tent with promise of a job and fully pay. By nighttime, he’s lying in his hen skins in a tent he shares with Cas and two other men, squeezing into the last open space beside the entrance flap, mere inches away from Cas’s own sleeping figure.

* * *

Sometimes, Dean’s cohort is tasked with traveling up ahead when they reach especially tricky terrain, shovels and pickaxes in hand as they smooth the ground down for the tracks. Most of the time, he’s by the cargo carriage, carrying heavy wooden slats with Cas and lining them up on the flattened ground that had been prepared days before, while other men secure them down in the dirt and lay the iron rails on top. Ranch work is no walk in the park, but this heavy lifting and constant labour burns different muscles in his arms and back. The first night after a long day out at the railroad front, Dean slept like a log — which he knows only because he was immediately singled out as the newbie, waking up with crude doodles and extra but unappealing facial hair drawn with ink on his face in the morning. Even the day after, much to everyone’s amusement, there were still traces of the art, no matter how many times Dean washed his face with soap.

Nonetheless, Dean is as stubborn as an ass and works silently, concentrating on developing his stamina for this type of work as efficiently as possible. The effort pays off quickly, with his colleagues appreciating both his hardworking demeanour on the job and his bold but friendly demeanour off the job. Soon, he gains enough strength to start joining in their work song, having both listened to the tunes enough times to familiarize himself with the melodies as well as to be able to balance the exertion his stamina allows between harmonizing and moving wooden beams.

It’s not just the labour that takes some extra getting used to: cowboy duty includes a lot of spending time outside, but there is something really special about standing out all day in the summer prairie, sweating through your shirt so that the soaking fabric sticks to your shoulder blades and the small of your back. The early afternoon is miserable, where everyone tries to have lunch at the hottest hour, swarming to the shade like flies, but the worst of it continues, and they overheat in long clothes that protect them from sunburn anyhow.

Every day is so tiring, so grueling to power through, that Dean hardly gets the opportunity to think about anything else, occupied entirely by work or by getting to his hen skins before he falls asleep elsewhere. There are a few evening meals that—once he gets used to the workload—Dean is content playing cards with the others, but there have also been times where he sits by himself, staring blankly into the fire as he shovels food into his mouth. At one point, he remembers the pocket watch stowed away in his duster and pulls it out, thumbing at the grooves and thinking with a sinking feeling that Sam and Charlie have most certainly returned to… whatever is left of the ranch, by this point. Luckily, Dean is thrown from dwelling on the guilt for too long when Cas approaches, and he stuffs the watch back into his pocket with haste as he greets the other with an easy smile.

Though he doesn’t actively try to interact much with Cas, they seem to drift together naturally, caught in each other’s orbit. Dean notices with some intrigue that Cas has the same distant disposition to him — he can tell, because they both use the mutual understanding of being tired from a hard day’s work while staying quiet at each other’s side. Nevertheless, this doesn’t discourage the mindless comment here and there, the idle conversation they make when they really are too tired to remember _why_ they’re distancing in the first place. Their constant physical closeness and preceding familiarity allows them to even develop somewhat of a silent form of communication, able to convey their thoughts to each other through a series of facial expressions and small body gestures; something about finding themselves sitting next to each other at mealtimes—the entire camp automatically reverting to the same seating almost every time—and listening to the other’s breathing only inches away as they fall asleep at night must do something in giving them a soul-deep understanding of their counterpart.

And it’s not just their time together that Dean finds himself slacking in his restraint: when he takes a breather during the day, leaning against the water barrel with a half-filled canteen in his grasp, his gaze wanders to watch Cas work, mindlessly repeating the same motions they have been for the past few weeks. He’s not entirely sure what makes him so curious about the ease in which Cas pushes himself through the job, but here he is, entranced by every flex of Cas’s forearm as he heaves the slat from the ground, visible only because his sleeves are pushed up to his elbows. When the wooden slat is placed onto the ground, Cas straightens, searching for the driest section of his shirt to lift up and wipe his forehead, flashing the skin of his abdomen in the process to which Dean is unfortunately drawn. He manages to catch sight of a fading scar on his side before Cas is staring back, tilting his head in his bird-like manner, wordlessly asking how long Dean is going to take a break.

Every once in a while, he’ll catch Cas doing the same, too. Usually it’s around the campfire, when Dean is telling some story and gesticulating wildly, his food half-forgotten on his lap. As he surveys his audience, sometimes he’ll glance to the side, just to see if Cas is listening, and find the person in question staring back intently, the interest in his expression aglow with the flickering light casting shadows across his face. Dean will sometimes be caught in his gaze, unable to tear himself away from the brilliant blue eyes that dedicate all of their attention to him.

* * *

One of the warmer nights, when everyone is half spread out of their hen skins, sweating through their undergarments, Dean wakes up while it’s still dark outside. Because he sleeps like a log most of the time—especially working out on the railroad front—it surprises him enough that he lets himself blink his eyes open to become more aware of his surroundings.

He’s drenched in sweat, but he doesn’t feel like he’s trying to sleep in an oven anymore. Instead, it feels like he’s… under pressure, like there’s a blanket on top of him, but cooling in nature. When he rouses himself enough to roll himself over, to see what is causing the phenomenon, Dean finds nothing there.

Out of habit, his gaze falls upon Cas, who’s sprawled out on his stomach, just as overheated as everyone else.

Dean galls back asleep moments later.

“There’s a storm coming,” he says over breakfast. “Woke up to that high pressure, cool feelin’ in the night.”

Gordon peers at him suspiciously. “Dunno what they put in your bait, but I was nuthin’ but a roasting chicken.”

Dean shrugs. “Guess we’ll just haveta wait and see.”

It only gets hotter, as it turns out. There’s no storm anytime that week, in fact, which further mystifies Dean.

Though, he’s almost relieved when he happens to wake up before everyone else, still finding that cooling pressure blanketed over him that only lulls him in his rest.

* * *

As predicted, they reach Dodge City in September. In celebration, having built up to where the station foundation is laid out and started by the other builders, someone arranges for plenty of firewater to be available for the railroad workers after their meal. Dean indulges himself plenty, but even Cas is convinced to have a few drinks, joining in the general looseness of the party with his easier smiles and lazier stares.

“For all the times you’ve heard of my woes and debts to pay,” Dean says when he locates Cas sitting by himself, away from the crowd, and collapses onto his own rump, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard yours.”

Cas pouts at nothing in particular. “Mine?”

“Yeah. Your debts. First time you picked me up outta the dumps, ya said that you had your own debts to pay. What are they?”

When he asks outright, the understanding sets in, and Cas’s face falls — it’s like the booze in Dean’s system makes him cocky enough to demand some past trauma that Cas is now reliving, served up to him on a silver platter like some sort of payment. His heart sinks.

“Oh, shit,” he stammers, ready to try and take it back, “I didn’t mean— You don’t have to…”

Cas plasters a smile on his face, waving him off. “It was many years ago, Dean.” He sighs. “I guess you’re allowed to know.”

Dean sits up straight, unintentionally being dramatic about how much attention he’s giving Cas to show that he’s listening. Cas doesn’t even notice, reaching for another swig of what looks like whiskey.

“It was… my brother,” he chooses his words carefully, like he’s avoiding the impact any alcohol would have on his speech. His expression is blank. “I lost him to… a couple of bandits.”

“Oh, _Cas…”_ Dean gasps. Shit, _if he ever lost Sammy_ … he’d cross the ends of the earth for that kid.

“Like I said, it was many years ago now.” The look in Cas’s eyes grows distant. “Though, it feels like no time has passed at all. He was… He was my only family, for a very long time. We always had each other, but now…?” Cas stares into his firewater, as if the alcohol will somehow produce an answer. “Now I’m alone.”

Dean doesn’t know where the flood of empathy comes from, but he’s almost overwhelmed with it, struck into silence. Some part of him wants to reach out and touch Cas, to hold him, to somehow reassure him that he’ll be alright, but he doesn’t know _how. Shit_ … how much firewater has he had?

There’s another part of him that wants to offer himself, to let Cas rely on him entirely so that neither of them has to be alone anymore… but when he remembers why that’s not plausible, it’s enough to sober himself up a little.

“So you help the weak and the needy?” he jokes instead, pressing down the bubbling emotion that began to froth in his chest as soon as his train of thought went a bit too serious.

Cas hesitates. “… Yes, when I can, I suppose.”

“That’s a noble act. I bet your brother would approve.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not so sure. If he found out it was in his name, he would probably be disappointed that it wasn’t something more… memorable.”

Dean holds a hand up to his heart, mocking offense. “My _heroic_ saving is not memorable enough for you?” He revels in the uncontained smile his act gains him.

“No, that’s not what I’m saying,” Cas hums, thinking. “His _memoriam_ of approval would be something more like… a senseless but elaborate prank.”

Dean stares at him incredulously before bursting out into laughter. Cas scrunches up his face as if in pain, exasperated.

 _“What?”_ he urges when Dean can’t stop laughing.

“It’s just,” Dean tries before peeking his eyes open, seeing Cas’s irritated glare, and falling into another set of breathless giggles that tug at the lingering pain in his chest. “I just can’t imagine your look-alike being so…” He waves his hand in a circle, gesturing at his companion, before losing it again.

“Ah, _yes,_ because you and Sam are _so identical,”_ Cas huffs, though barely suppressing his amusement at Dean’s contagious glee.

“Hey: we have our _moments,”_ Dean protests.

Cas’s eyes absolutely shine in the firelight, casting a warm, glowing feeling that floods across Dean’s senses. He leans into the moment, grasping for new ideas to make Cas laugh, holding onto the addictive sensation it brings him in return.

* * *

It’s not often that they get time to themselves. If they’re not at work, then they’re eating with the rest of the troop, or they’re crammed into tents like sardines trying to get some shut eye… and Dean is personally not so tactless to take care of himself in those kinds of conditions.

Thus, it becomes a relatively rare occasion that Dean has the time and energy to release himself. When he happens to wake up in the middle of the night and lie there for long enough that his mind wakes to a hazy state, the way his groin presses against the ground enough to convince him, he decides to get up and leave the tent, heading for the patch of vegetation most of the workers end up relying on as a source of privacy from where they are with the railroad now.

The moonlight is enough to guide him, and his eyes become adjusted to the more shaded areas the brush hides. There’s a trickle of water somewhere, a small stream that stretches across the stripe, providing the greenery with its sustenance.

Picking a tree that is slightly more hidden from view, Dean leans against the sturdy trunk, facing the other side of the patch from the camp. The lack of attention he’s been giving himself has made him sensitive, so he absently reassures himself that he shouldn’t take too long.

Unbuttoning his pants with just a bit too much excitement, he spits as much saliva as he can into the palm of his hand and reaches down to grab himself, sighing at the contact and letting the back of his head bump against the tree trunk. Lazily, he begins to stroke himself with the lightest of touches, slicking his own spit with the tips of his fingers against the sensitive skin to make sure no spot is left unattended. When he flicks his thumb over the head, he gathers the bead of precome that has already collected, sliding his hand back down the shaft with a twist of his wrist to spread it into the mix. Dean bites his lip and groans as he feels his pulse drop to his lower half, radiating warmth across his body with every throb.

His free hand trails up along his body, lifting his undershirt from his chest as it lightly brushes against responsive skin. There’s little heat that lingers from the daytime, and Dean is facing in just the right direction for the breeze to softly caress where he’s exposed, and with his fingers, he can feel how his nipples perk at the sensation. He lets his fingers linger there, pulling and twisting and playing with the nub in time with his strokes.

As he’s enjoying himself, drawing out the sensations because his sensitivity right now is _fantastic,_ his mind idly wanders, drifting independently from the rhythm into which he has physically fallen.

It has been a while since he’s fucked a girl: sure, he had intentions, but they never seemed to work out. It’s been a while since he’s held breasts in his hands, feeling the soft squish under his fingers, overwhelmed with the breathy moans in his ear as he fucks up into her, dragging her hips down onto his cock. The thought makes him thrust up unhurriedly into his own fist, his hips pushing forward off the tree he is otherwise pressed against.

Then what _did_ happen last time? It had been a while since he and Jessie had done anything, but he’d fooled around with Benny last. He was sitting on a lap, strong hands holding him in place, and as he was being stroked, out of his control, he could feel the outline of Benny’s own arousal poking through the fabric beneath him. There was something immensely satisfying, rocking forward onto it, feeling it mould to his weight as Benny’s own control gradually unraveled. He tightens his grip on his own dick, reveling in the memory of how they brushed together, slick with each other’s precoma as they thrust into their own pleasure.

He was drunk then, and Dean always wants to blame it on having been out in the sun, but now, with the memory vivid behind his eyelids, he can almost see the flush cock in front of his face again, plump and pink in the firelight, begging to be sucked. Dean has an overwhelming need to taste it again, to feel its weight sitting on his tongue and to stare up at the euphoria of its recipient as he swallows it as deep as he can.

As his hand gradually increases its pace, coaxing him to his climax, his mind slips from the memory slightly, modifying it based on something he can most clearly visualize. Is it bad to think of the Bandit, when all the interaction he got was with the intention to heal him and clean up his wounds? Dean doesn’t even know what his full face looks like, but he can’t help but imagine the dark stubble rubbing against his neck as wet lips and teeth suck a mark onto his collarbone. Dean can’t even imagine what the Bandit could do with the amount of supernatural strength he possesses, how he could probably lift Dean with ease, and how Dean would grip onto his arms and feel how the muscles flex beneath his hands.

When he tries to put a voice to it, though, all that comes to mind is the rough gravel that appears in Cas’s voice when he’s still bleary with sleep. The low rumble exists as an echo in his head while he moves his hand, flicking his nipple, imagining what it would be like to run his hands through the already-messy hair and tangle his fingers in the slight curls. He’s barely aware of how that voice in his head forms whispered words for his conscience, the last tip over the iceberg that sends him over the edge with a soft moan.

Thrusting so that his pelvis is pushed up against his fist, he lets the last of his spend spill onto the ground, streaking the grass beneath his boots with sticky threads. His legs quake with the exertion and his breath is shaky, but his mind hums with post-orgasmic bliss, satisfied at last.

Dean cleans up quickly and tucks himself back in, languidly making his way back to the camp as he appreciates the continued cool breeze against his flushed skin. It’s only when he climbs back into the tent and sees Cas, hair ruffled with how he’s moved in his sleep, his breathing gentle and regulated, that Dean is reminded of the images his mind had provided him. He’s too tired to feel too guilty—and thinking about it too hard probably won’t do him any good—but when he crawls back into his hen skins, finally woozy enough to get at least a few more hours of sleep, he finds himself facing the man, listening to the soft puffs of breath that follow every exhale.

* * *

Dean has been getting so used to the weird cool pressure the air has in the night that when it disappears, he becomes restless. He’s hot and it’s stuffy and no matter what position he rolls into, it’s not good enough. He knows Cas isn’t there when he kicks his leg out and there’s nothing stopping him, and, too tired to care about being an ass, he leaves it there. Cas can deal with it when he comes back from his piss.

In the morning, Dean is grumpy from his bad sleep, pouting into his cup of black coffee as he barely tunes into the buzz of the other breakfast-goers.

“Didya hear the Desert Angel was peepin’ around our grounds last night?”

Dean chokes into his cup of joe. _Now_ he’s awake.

“Swear on the bible! Old Chuckie saw ‘im on the way back from his midnight piss.”

“What was he doin’ ‘round here?”

“Just passin’ through, by the looks of it.”

“Ad there were no dead?”

Dean automatically tenses. _Shit,_ even with the Bandit leaving him in the dust like that, he’s _still_ going to defend him, apparently. He keeps his pie hole shut for the moment, brain still too sluggish to properly argue anyhow.

“Not anyone here.”

“We got off lucky, this time,” someone ribs, and Dean has to restrain himself from punching something… or someone. Damn, was he ever this defensive about this topic before?

“Something wrong?”

Dean looks up to see Cas approaching him, offering him a roll of bread. Dean takes it as Cas sits down beside him, digging into his own breakfast.

“No, nothin’,” he grumbles, ripping away the crust with his teeth. Cas raises an eyebrow.

“You looked angrier than usual at your coffee.”

 _“I wasn’t—!”_ Dean stops himself and sighs. “I just think they might be catching up to me.”

_“They…?”_

“The ones that I went into hiding here for in the first place. I think they’re finally closing in.”

It’s not a total lie. If the White Bandit has been spotted within the vicinity, then it’s a pretty good indicator that demons are around… after all, other than those bastards, who else does the Bandit actively act against? Whoever is considered _“bad”_ by the general populous?

Dean’s mood sinks even further when he realizes this means that he’ll have to leave the camp soon. He’s reeled himself too close to security once again—something he was so dead set on avoiding—that he has failed to notice how his anchor had loosened, threatening to set him free to drift away, caught in the undercurrent with nothing to grip onto.

Cas’s brow furrows. “I don’t think—”

“What are you talking about?” Dean interjects just a little bit too roughly. _Damn, why won’t the coffee kick in yet?_ “You don’t even know who’s following me.” Cas looks like he wants to argue for a second, but then he turns back to his food, chewing slowly.

Dean hopes it’s not the case. By God, he’d be happy staying here forever, if he could. Thing is, fate isn’t exactly on his side lately, and he has a horrible feeling he’ll be ripped away from it all sooner rather than later.

* * *

His gut instinct is absolutely right. Dean hates that it is, but he’s grateful that it has sharpened his senses at the very least.

First it was the storms. They didn’t quite approach the camp, where they were gradually heading towards Raton Pass, but they could see them skirting the horizon in the distance, too far away for anything larger than a belly grumble, but still close enough to see the occasional tendril of lightning flash across the sky.

Then, it’s the sulphur. He catches a whiff of it off the evening breeze, threatening for the storm to draw closer. Dean recognizes the smell, now. It’s the same stench that crept into Santa Fe, the same stench he detected in the San Miguel chapel. He knows better now. He knows better, knows that it _is_ an unusual strain of weather, as the other workers casually observe, but this time, he knows why.

The last straw is the black eyes. Dean is lucky he even detected them in the first place. It’s not even a new worker: though he stays in the shadows, eavesdropping, he can tell right away that his associate is not the same. The way the air crackles—like there’s a disturbance in the force of nature—launches Dean back to before he ran into hiding, before there was no turning back.

He doesn’t even wait until the morning; it’s too dangerous. Cas seems on edge before bed, like he suspects Dean is about to do something, but he never says anything. Once Dean is sure everyone has fallen asleep, he ventures outside the tent with a kerosene lamp and writes two notes: one of resignation to his supervisor, and one of apology (for a hasty departure) and gratitude (for everything else) to Cas. Addressing their hastily folded fronts, he leaves them both by Cas’s hand, hoping he’ll deliver one and understand the other.

It’s difficult to leave. This post was meant to be a temporary, throw-them-off-his-scent kind of job, but despite the group moving sluggishly down the in-progress Santa Fe railway, he grew familiar with the people here, he got attached. It’s difficult to keep his back turned as he tightens his saddle bags on Impala’s saddle, double-checking his coat pockets for his ballast, the pocket watch, and the Colt. It’s one thing leaving them, but it’s another knowing he’s leaving evil incarnate within their midst.

All he can offer them is a silent prayer before he mounts Impala and rides away.


	14. Abilene:  A Return to Noon, Long Ago

_ In the center of the cellar sits a young man, probably somewhere in his twenties. He is bound in a chair, hands tied behind the backrest, head bowed to his chest. The chair sits in the middle of the room, which has only a thin layer of hay sparsely scattered across the cool floor. _

_ There are footsteps on the floorboards above the man’s head, stepping smartly to the equivalent of the corner of the room. Then there’s the sound of hay being brushed away, and something being moved, and then a trapdoor is creaking open. The man, who up until now has sat still enough to be unconscious, grins wide across his face. _

_ “Ooh,” he taunts, voice grating to the ears. “Have you brought more toys to play with?” _

_ The intruder ignores him. Instead, he marches directly to the side, pulling out a table that had been folded and leaning up against the wall. He heaves a bag he had been carrying over his shoulder onto its surface, and something clinks within. _

_ “So? What first?” the man purrs. He’s finally looking up, eyes—blacker than the shadows where not even the light from between the floorboards falls—narrowed at the intruder. _

_ Continuing to pay his mocking no attention, the intruder finally approaches the man with a canteen, splashing a good portion of the water inside the container onto the man. Upon contact, it sizzles the man’s skin, and his scream tears through the room as if his very voice longs to escape. As the steam begins to dissipate, leaving burning flesh behind, the man’s agony ebbs away into laughter. _

_ “That’s it?” he screeches with crazed amusement. “What’s next, a  _ water balloon?”

_ “I need you to keep your end of the bargain,” the intruder growls. “Did you find her?” _

_ The man cackles. “Is it nighttime? Is that why you’ve got me screaming so the whole neighbourhood knows your name? No one up to hear me—” His taunting morphs into wounded howling when the intruder tosses more water into his face. _

_ “Didn’t Alastair get his hands on him? Isn’t he happy with the little gift?” The intruder’s eyes flash, and the man smirks. His shoulders heave, gasping with the over-dramatic recovery from the burning torture. _

_ “Oh, he was very pleased with the poached bird and your little plan. Any time now, the second gift will come wandering by!” _

_ The intruder’s expression harshens. “I  _ said _ you would keep the boy out of it.” _

_ “Ah, right… And when did you start trusting hell spawn over your own son?” _

_ Enraged, the intruder pulls a switchblade from his jacket and douses it in water. Blade glistening, it’s driven directly into the man’s heart. His scream is head-splitting, and the effect lasts for a lot longer. The intruder leaves the blade where he stuck it, and the man barely has enough energy to look his captor in the eye. _

_ “Part of the deal,” the intruder grimaces, “was that he wasn’t going to get tangled in this.” _

_ “You said…” the man grits out, “that we couldn’t bring him into this. It’s not our fault if he waltzes in by himself.” The man shouts again when the intruder steps forward to twist the blade further into the man’s chest, pouring more water from the canteen down the switchblade so that it trickles down into the gaping and bloody wound. _

_ “He is  _ not,” _ the intruder says, “to get involved. Now… where is she?” _

_ The man chokes up some blood, spitting it into his captor’s face. The intruder blinks it away unpleasantly, wiping away the fluids from his cheek with his sleeve. _

_ “We can’t find her,” he tells him at last. _

_ “Bullshit.” The intruder scoffs, moving to put more water into the man’s wound. _

_ “Wait!” the man fumbles. If his hands were untied, he would grasp desperately at the intruder’s wrist. “Wait… I’m serious about that one. I made a lot of big calls for that, and they can’t find her anywhere.” _

_ The intruder narrows his eyes. “Not possible.” _

_ “It shouldn’t be,” the man readily agrees, “but we can’t find her anywhere, it’s the honest truth. We may play with the fine print and search for loopholes, but we always follow through on our end of the bargain.” _

_ “Then where is she?” _

_ “How would I know?” he retorts, and you can see how he realizes the consequences of his tongue almost immediately, flinching before the intruder sprays more water at him. _

_ “I still need my end of the deal fulfilled.” _

_ “We did! We looked everywhere!” _

_ “’We’ weren’t looking  _ everywhere, _ apparently.” _

_ “I swear, we don’t know!” _

_ “Then I want something else from you.” _

_ “What makes you think you can get anything else?” _

_ “Oh, it shouldn’t be too difficult, I’d expect. For my expense… not yours.” The intruder grins cruelly. He grabs the handle of the switchblade and tugs it out, leaving the man gasping hollowly with a new hole carved into his heart, surging forward as his chest follows the momentum of the blade. _

_ “Out with it, then.” _

_ The intruder twists the switchblade between his fingers, watching the metal glint as he thinks. “I want to know where Alastair is.” The man grimaces. _

_ “Oh, go to hell, John Winchester.” _

_ John catches the blade smoothly in his hand, turning his attention back to the demon at hand with a marvelous simper. _

_ “I’ll be sure to stop by and say hello.” _

_ The blade is washed anew with holy water, ready to be carved into the flesh of the unfortunate demon caught by his trap. _

__

__

* * *

Dean sits in a chair in one of the more established saloons up the Santa Fe trail, only half-attending to the meal set out before him. There is very little crowd in the facility loosely accompanying him, and certainly not in his little corner of the room.

The bar dog sidles over to his table and leaves Dean with a bottle of beer, and Dean smiles weakly in thanks. Once the bar dog returns to his post, letting his patron dwell in his isolation, Dean returns his attention to the object in his hands, turning it over slowly.

The golden pocket watch is a peculiar item, and, though it continues to mystify him, unproven of its supposed power but becoming incrementally more comforting with its glowing warmth as the week passes by, it has somehow caused considerably less grief than the revolver stowed away in his pocket. Dean is grateful, of course,  _ but what of its legend? _ It burned through the skin of his father’s hand so that his palm blistered painfully, but he can  _ see _ now, in this moment, how he turns it over with his own fingers, its almost unmetallic warmth something his senses crave to seek out.

He clicks the lid open, brushing it away from the clock face with a few swipes of his thumb. The mechanism isn’t ticking, the hands stopped at two o’clock, but it feels like it’s humming, like it’s matching the pulse in his hand to remain undetectable. It’s a nice piece of work, so Dean idly wonders if he should try and set it at some point, use it for time rather than his other, shittier timepiece… but then again, he’s not even sure if it would actually  _ work _ as a clock properly.

Sighing, he clicks it shut again and stows the pocket watch away. The whole legend of it burning up the user is not promising, even if he is somehow  _ “chosen” _ to not be burned up by it right away. Even in the dim lantern light of the saloon, the tiny, engraved flames that emanate from the carved sun in the center of its surface glint, reflecting light in a way that makes it further represent heat.

Dean, after leaving the railroad camp with haste, ended up traveling back up the Santa Fe trail. He was able to see how much of the Dodge City station had developed since they had built the rails for it, which ended up being a rather impressive progress, but he didn’t stay longer than one night in a rented room in town. It’s not like he has any concrete plans of where he’s headed, but so far, he’s reasoned that it will be easier to hide in plain sight, camouflaged by the condensed population of the cities on the more northeast side of Kansas. He’s about a day or two out of Abilene now (pushing Impala at this rate), which is currently his main target.

Abilene…  _ why Abilene? _ There’s something driving Dean there; he’s not sure what, but it feels important. He misses the cattle town, in all honesty, but he’s not there to put Ellen in danger, so he will have to remain inconspicuous, nevertheless. Plus, it’s not like he’ll be able to stay for long: once the burning curiosity is satisfied, he’ll move on again, determining whether he should head into the bigger cities like Topeka or Lawrence, or if he should circle around back east, using the vast, relatively uninhabited wilderness as his hiding grounds.

Finally reaching for his beer, Dean takes a well-needed drink and digs into his meal.

* * *

Upon seeing Abilene in the distance, Dean hesitates not because of an unwillingness to proceed, but rather a weakening of his resolve to avoid greeting familiar faces, giving into the consolation of the open arms he would undoubtedly receive. Unconsciously tightening his grip on the leather of Impala’s reins, he keeps her at a steady walking pace and pulls his hat down to shade his eyes.

The one other familiar aspect of Abilene is that it’s where his mother died. Abilene didn’t even come into existence as a town until the past decade, but there had been minimal settlement in the area before anything truly became official, which is where it all happened. His father had pointed out the structure in brief once before—some warehouse of some kind—but the memory of it is engrained into Dean’s mind. He was a teenager when John was with him to point it out: they had been in Abilene for some sort of business, and it was the time that Jo—who was staying with her mother—managed to convince her parents to let her go with her father and work as a cowhand with Dean, Sam, and Charlie. That memory in particular brings a small smile to Dean’s face as he reminisces; he can still hear the stubbornness in their family (much like that of his own), with Jo’s unmoving stance and her parents’ protective worry.

But during that trip, when John brought Sam and Dean for a walk around town while the Singer family sorted out their issues, they passed by the burnt remains (present after all of these years — nothing had been rebuilt on those grounds, as the town was highly superstitious about the incident and believed it to be haunted) and John briefly mentioned that it was their mother’s final resting place before moving on. Dean remembers being unable to tear his eyes away from the ruins, almost incapable of imagining his father, all those years ago, running back to find flames licking every last plank of wood on the premises, the heat so intense that he would not be able to find any remains… all while Dean sat clueless at home, watching over Sammy as their mother died horrifically so many miles away. Dean can’t even remember the last thing he said or did with his mother, and he despises himself for it.

He finds himself staring at the ruins now, staring at nothing more than a heap of rotted wood and some other building materials that had not already been scavenged for within the past few decades. Dismounting Impala, he ties her lead to some taller remains that are secured to the ground before wandering in to properly pay his respects.

It feels strange, having never done this before. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t visited the site much aside from in passing, any of the times he was in Abilene, (perhaps the grief was too overwhelming), but all he can feel now is a mind-numbing calmness, like there’s a soft static crackling through his head. Some of the blackened wood crumbles under his boot as he steps inside what would have been the warehouse.

_ What  _ actually _ killed Mom? _ he wonders idly as he steps through, seeing that there really is nothing left from the warehouse but old ash, long blown away, and some of its foundation. Dean had always been told it was the fire, but with the knowledge he has now, he wonders if his parents were hunting a demon of some sort… or multiple.

Then again, the only time Dean had seen burning associated with demons (aside from their own burning in contact with holy water) was with the White Bandit. The White Bandit had left half of his victims burned under his hand, twisted and blistered beyond recognition.  _ And here Dean was, successful in avoiding thinking about the myth for so long… _

Dean feels nauseous.  _ Was his father telling the truth? _

No,  _ no _ … it can’t be. Even with all the evidence laid out in front of him, something still doesn’t ring right. It’s the same thing in his gut that tells him demons are near, the same thing in his gut that let him figure out how to escape from that ghost town near Wagon Mound. With every fragment of evidence pointing him in the other direction, Dean can’t bring himself to believe that the White Bandit— _ his _ White Bandit that he knows and has cared for and has been cared for—is the very same that would so ruthlessly and mercilessly murder his own mother.

And then Dean remembers the rumors, the basis behind the legend of the White Bandit, and he grits his teeth.

Those were all bad people, bandits and demons and the like. How could  _ his own mother _ —the woman with the soft touch that would sing him to sleep and bake him his favorite apple pie with boundless love—be considered among the likes of  _ them? _

Standing in the middle of the wreckage, Dean tries to imagine the incident from his mother’s point of view for the first time, instead of his father’s.  _ What had she been trying to achieve? _ What  _ was _ she doing inside of the building that trapped her and eliminated any possible means of escape?

Frowning, Dean rummages around his pocket and takes out the golden pocket watch. Its weight settles in his hand, like the gravity here is stronger, and the blazing sun overhead reflects against the lid like it’s never done before. Further mystifying is the fact that the heat seems to have grown, seeping into the palm of Dean’s hand on the verge of being uncomfortable, like the warmth itself is straining against its confinements.

Dad had been looking for this pocket watch in particular because he’d found it at the site in the first place. It was the only item that had been left behind by the fire, which consequently disappeared before he could get his hands on it. Now that the watch has been returned, almost melting in Dean’s hand, it fills Dean with a buzzing energy.

_ Why was it left here, and why was it the only remains from the smouldering fire? _

Instinctively, Dean thumbs the latch and nudges the lid open, staring at the clock face. Not once, in all the months he’s had it in his possession, has he tried to actively tinker with the watch. Sure, he’s fiddled a bunch with the chain and the grooves of the engravings and opened and closed the lid numerous times, but he’s never tried winding the timepiece.

Heart climbing to his throat, he lifts his other hand as if it were stuck in molasses, hearing the click of tiny gears loud and clear as he winds the pocket watch back.

And, to his astonishment, when he releases the knob from between his fingertips, he watches as both hands—in tandem, the minute hand dragging itself all the way around the face—glide back as if they were independent of each other, gears ticking wildly from within.

When the minute hand catches up to the hour hand, stopping exactly at the noon mark, everything stops for a moment. It’s like time stands still, where not even a breeze brushes past. Dean holds his breath.

And then, everything happens.

What happens in the next moment is somewhat difficult to describe literally, but the best Dean could explain the phenomenon is as if there is an explosion of energy from the pocket watch, radiating outwards as he’s blown off his feet. The pocket watch falls from his grasp and lays open on the ground, but there’s still… well, there’s light that pours from its face, heating the air in a golden warmth. If trying to describe the literally heat that is currently emanating from the scene, one would incorrectly assume it to be scorching, unbearably hot to the touch; instead, rather than being exposed to flame and the arid heat of the hottest desert afternoon, this energy provides a more  _ healing _ warmth, like sliding into a warm bath after being chilled by the winter air.

This radiant, glowing warmth swirls around the scene where Dean sits spectating like water in a whirlpool, growing only brighter and warmer as it swirls faster and faster. At some point, Dean reflexively shields his eyes with a forearm, squinting into the light despite the fact that it doesn’t hurt him.

As suddenly as it all began, the energy hurricane evaporates into the air, leaving his presence with a final  _ whoosh. _ In its midst, revealed with the absence of blinding light, two people stand, frozen in what appears to be some confrontation about a few feet apart from each other. They are held in that position for a few seconds before they fall at last, their arms swinging down to their sides as they collapse onto their knees, breathing heavily.

One of the two is unrecognizable. He’s probably a touch shorter than Dean and has slightly longer golden-brown hair that has been slicked back. Though in a similar condition as his opponent, he keeps his head tilted up, staring back at her with an indiscernible expression.

The other person is staring at the ground, her longer blonde hair curtaining the sides of her face as she catches her breath. Dean can’t stop staring at her, and when she lifts her head and turns to face Dean, his breath stops.

His lips move with a heart-shattering question, but no sound escapes him.

_ Mom? _


	15. Lore

Mary is the first to get to her feet, but the blankness in her expression rips Dean’s heart out of his chest. Her gaze flickers from his own eerily identical eyes to the pocket watch by his feet, open but—now—completely still. Then, it shifts to her opponent.

“That’s him, isn’t it?” the man says gleefully. He’s entirely too unfazed for someone who just appeared out of thin air—assumedly from within the pocket watch—sitting back on his haunches to return a languid stare at Mary.

“Who are you?” she asks curtly, her attention back to Dean. The alienation is slowly breaking him from the inside, and he genuinely struggles to quell the vulnerability from showing plainly on his face.

To be fair, Dean was a chubby boy that barely came up to Mary’s waist the last time she saw him. Despite the fact that she looks the same as she did all those years ago, Dean struggles to recognize her, like he can’t wrap his head around the fact that it’s  _ really her; _ it’s like in all the years that she’s been gone, his image of her has warped, blurring her features so that he only pictured a phantom of her figure in his memory.

“I…” he finally manages to gasp out, his voice struggling to leave his throat. He closes his mouth and gulps, dizzy with trying to accept that she’s standing,  _ alive, _ right in front of him.  _ “Mom…” _

Just for a moment, her face twists into one of confusion, before she straightens it out into its hardened, interrogative state.  _ “What?” _

“Oho! Now  _ this _ is getting interesting.” Both mother and son steadfastly ignore the other man.

Mary is now scanning Dean desperately, drinking in his features and the clothes he is wearing. “How long has it been?” Her tone is growing softer, and there’s a slight waver underneath it that Dean can barely pick out. He eases the tension from his disposition, trying to remain as open as possible so she can just  _ maybe _ recognize him.

“Almost three decades,” he replies. His mind is racing, but it’s not telling him anything at all. “It’s 1872, now.”

Her shoulders fall slightly. The exhaustion in her eyes makes her weary, and there’s a wistfulness in her expression of someone who’s missed out on years they can’t take back.

The other man whistles. “Three decades? That’s rough…  _ Well, _ for you, at least.”

_ “Gabriel,” _ Mary scolds sharply. Her eyes remain locked on Dean. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Gabriel hold up his hands to relent.

“Sorry, sorry… I’ll be  _ mindful.” _

“What’s your name?” Mary asks, tone louder only from raising her voice at her…  _ companion? _ Despite manifesting in a position that suggested they were fighting, they don’t act as if they are on bad terms.

Dean draws in a shaky breath, exhaling slowly to calm himself and find the stability he needs to answer.

“Dean,” he says, breathless nonetheless. “Dean Winchester.”

Almost immediately, her façade crumbles, a tender sadness lining her every feature. Clenching her jaw, she forces herself to remain where she stands, looking down at her son.

“How do I know it’s you?” she presses on, the suppressed awe seeping through her voice. Dean smiles, because of  _ course _ she would be skeptical: if she is the only other person John could think of that would be capable of surviving a demon attack alone, then she’s smart enough to not fling herself towards the first scent of temptation.

So because he understands this, Dean gives his answer thought. It’s not easy to sift through the mush into which his mind has currently melted, but memories scramble forward in his subconscious, filling in the blurred face of his mother that grew hazy over time. Him being so young back then, it’s not easy to remember much in the first place, so he clings onto the feelings they evoke instead.

“When I was young—before I can even remember—” he begins, gathering strength as he speaks, “you used to bring me out to the horses and sit me up on their backs. You’d tease me about choking the horn so much that I learned to cling onto the reins until my fists were numb as you’d lead the horse around the corral.” She doesn’t stop him, evidently reliving the experiences in her own mind, so Dean continues, not bothering to restrain the memories as they tumble forward.

“Before Sammy was born, I remember you singing to me: before bed, while you cooked… even while you led me around on one of the horses. You let me play with the dough as you made the filling for my favorite apple pie with the apples we picked from the trees that grow by the creek.” He’s talking faster and faster now, like his words can’t keep up with his thoughts and the elation of realizing  _ he can have all of this back. _ He barely notices how Mary’s stepping forward, towards where he sits propped up on his hands on the ground. “Before… before you left. That last time. You hugged me and asked me if I would take care of Sammy while you were gone.”

Mary is in front of him now, and she falls to her knees, leaning forward to grab Dean’s shoulders. She’s smaller than he remembers. He gives her a trembling smile.

“And I said I would, I said I’d do anything for him.” He doesn’t realize how his breath shakes his body, hastening in his desperation. Taking a deeper, steadying breath, he slows himself down, staring back into her strikingly green eyes. “I did. I watched over him and took care of him, made sure he ate enough to grow like a damn tree, fed him enough books to make sure he’s the smartest kid I know, and he’s tough, he’s  _ so _ tough, I wanted to make sure you’d be proud of him too.”

When Mary pulls him into a bone-crushing embrace, he falls into it so hard that all of the air leaves his lungs. Dean is sat up now, holding himself up with his arms wrapped tightly around his mother, feeling that she’s  _ there, _ she’s really  _ there, _ because not only is she not disappearing from his touch, but he can smell the ash and the lingering smoke on her, and the barest trace of a flowery soap that Dean hasn’t caught whiff of in a very long time. He buries his face into her neck, drinking in everything about his mom.

_ “I’m sorry,” _ she murmurs, and there’s a slender but tough hand running through his ruffled hair where his hat used to be (having blown off in the commotion), slipping down to rub comforting circles onto his neck. “I didn’t mean to be gone for so long, I’m sorry, Dean.” His chest heaves with a sob, which almost startles him out of his trance, because he’s not  _ crying. _ He’s  _ not _ … he’s just missed her.

“I messed up,” he mumbles, a thought occurring to him. “Mom, I messed up big time.”

“What? What did you say, sweetie?”

Dean moves his face to the side slightly, so his words aren’t muffled by her shirt. “I’ve really messed up.” He draws in another shaky breath. “I’ve been trying so hard, and I  _ know _ I couldn’t give him the best, I couldn’t send him off to college to go and do all his smart stuff, but I fucked up real bad this time.”

“What did you do?” she asks softly. Her cheek rests against his head, and he sighs into the contact.

“I’ve tried to protect him, but I’ve left him and—” he gulps, trying to piece together the phrases in his head. “The ranch is destroyed, I led them there… Sammy wasn’t there and he probably came back home to everything ruined, and what if they find him—”

“Shh, shh,  _ Dean,” _ Mary hushes him, almost rocking him. “Take a deep breath. If he’s as tough as you say he is, he’ll be fine.” Dean heeds her advice, reassured by the mere sound of her voice. “There’s a lot we need to catch each other up on… Why don’t we go organize ourselves and  _ then _ sit down to talk?”

He lets himself stay in her arms for a few more moments, using the peace the silence brings him to collect himself. Finally, he nods in agreement, unweaving his arms from around her torso to step back and shakily stand up. Dean’s head feels woozy, and he’s not quite sure if it’s from the lack of air he has been allowing himself or simply the general flood of emotions that have just passed through his system. He rubs his eyes and blinks away anything obscuring his vision.

Gabriel is sat down where he first materialized, inspecting his fingernails. Like he senses that Dean is staring at him, his attention perks back up again, staring at Dean with dampened astonishment.

“Oh, is the little reunion over now?”

“Shove it, Gabe,” Dean grumbles, to which the man momentarily slackens with surprise before guffawing.

“It really  _ is _ him, isn’t it?” Gabriel cackles delightedly. He jumps to his feet in an instant before wobbling slightly. “Who _ op, there we go. _ I can’t believe the Holder was your  _ little Dean-o _ all along.”

Mary, funnily enough, looks equally as irritated as Dean, her eyebrow twitching.  _ “If I have to hear any more of your stupid voice…” _

Gabriel holds up his hands. “Fine! Fine.” He starts walking away, in the direction where Impala is waiting (who, Dean notices, Mary stares at with muddled familiarity — perhaps Impala, too, has grown to the likeness of John’s old horse). “It’s been three decades; do you think they have anything decent with sugar around here?” His gaze skitters to the area of Abilene that is actually populated in the distance. “Hey, look! It’s a town now!”

Dean holds his hand out to help up his mother, but, in a manner Dean feels like he should have predicted, Mary ignores it and helps herself up. To not look so dumb, he switches his target and picks up the pocket watch instead, snapping it shut and stowing it away.

“What does he mean by—?”

Mary waves Dean down, starting to follow Gabriel but keeping in step with her son. “There’s a lot to explain, and you’ve already had enough excitement within the past hour.”

Stubborn as he is, Dean pouts.  _ “I wasn’t—!” _ He softens immediately when he hears her laugh.

“No, of course you weren’t. Now, I’m a bit behind on the times… What do ya say you show me around this place so we can find a nice place to stay?”

Elated with the warmth that floods to the depths of his very soul, Dean beams and jogs to catch up to her.

* * *

There’s a lot they need to get for two people with absolutely nothing on their backs, and Dean is all at once glad he saved up the extra pay from the railroad work.

With a lot of convincing from his mother, they end up heading to Ellen’s, reasoning that she would more than happily oblige to help them in some way. He walks with them into town, Impala at his side, as they all make their way to the familiar saloon. Both Mary and Gabriel wait patiently (only a bit antsy) for Dean to tie Impala to the temporary parking out front, making sure that she will be okay for the… however long they’ll end up staying inside.

Dean is buzzing with energy as he opens the door, not entirely sure why he’s nervous. (His entire system is quite frazzled, at this point). Boots creaking too loudly on the floorboards, he steps inside, scanning for a familiar face. The saloon is relatively empty now, free lunch having just finished; it’s easy to find the figure at the bar, wiping the surface with a rag.

“Dean!” Ellen exclaims, throwing the rag down and leaning against the bar with both of her hands spread, clutching the edge. “Sam and Charlie were so worried about you, what in  _ Sam Hill _ are you doing in…” she trails off, her gaze drifting to the side. Dean stiffens when he hears the figure step out from behind him, stilling at his right. “… Abilene,” she finishes, barely audible.

Ellen looks like she’s seen a ghost (which, to her credit, is not too far off the mark). She doesn’t bat an eyelash for an increasingly awkward period of time, until she finally leaves her spot, eyes locked on Mary.

“Ash, I’ll need you to man the bar for a bit,” she murmurs, answered by a distant and laid-back  _ “yes, ma’am, at your service.” _

As if in a trance, she makes her way to them from behind the bar. Dean and Mary press forward (Gabriel assumedly in tow), following her into a room in the back that Dean knows is a sitting room to her own living quarters.

The second they step into the room, however, and the door is shut behind them, they’re assaulted with a splash of water to the face. Dean splutters, wiping the droplets that cling to his eyelashes away.

“Wh—” Dean starts before he sees Ellen pressing…  _ cutlery _ … to his mom’s wrist. Mary, surprisingly, lets her, grinning broadly as she watches the disbelief flood her friend. Both Dean and Gabriel are also subjected to the supposedly threatening fork.

Gabriel peers strangely after the fork. “… Silver?” he guesses, and how is beyond Dean. Ellen nods, still baffled into silence. He hums, staring idly at the skin where it was pressed against.

“How?” she asks at last, staring wide-eyed at Mary. “You still have the same damn clothes from that day and everything, not aged a damn  _ day.” _

Mary reaches out and touches her arm, smiling gently. “It’s a long story, I’ll have to tell you later.” She glances at Dean, easily interpreting his restlessness.

“Well,  _ by God, _ do you need anything?” Ellen immediately offers, leaning in for a tight hug as she speaks, which Mary easily returns.  _ “Jesus, _ it’s been a long time.”

“Can you explain why you soaked us with—” Dean’s brain clicks. “Oh. Nevermind.”

Ellen raises her eyebrows. “I see you’re unusually slow on the uptake.”

That was  _ holy water. _ She sprayed them with  _ holy water, _ to check if they were  _ demons. _ Did everyone know, except for Dean? Then again, he reasons, if Bobby knew all along, then it was likely that Ellen would too. He’s still mystified about the purpose of the silver, though.

“He’s had a bit of an overwhelming day,” Mary reassures, and when Dean glares at her, she laughs again. He can’t stay mad at her, seeing her like that, so he feels the irritation melt off of him instantly.

_ “I’ll say,” _ Ellen scoffs.  _ Dean can glare at her instead.  _ “Well, you’re welcome to have the spare room for as long as you need—”

Dean shakes his head, holding his hand out to stop whatever his mother was going to say. “We can’t stay for long — if we can, I’d like to start heading out as soon as possible.”

Ellen is aghast.  _ “Oh— _ boy! There is  _ no way—!” _

“Easy, Ellen,” he sighs. She purses her lips at him, hands planted on her hips. “I’m being tracked, and I don’t want you to get caught up in it.” She looks like she’s about to protest, but Dean presses on. “You know what’s happened to the ranch by now, don’t you? News doesn’t travel  _ that _ slowly.” She stops and clenches her jaw. At the concerned look from his mother, Dean glances at her and reassures: “we said we’d talk later.”

“Well,” she relents, “is there any other way I can help?”

Dean nods. “They don’t have anything. We just wanted to borrow—”

Ellen stops him with a raised hand. “I have extra bed rolls in the closet, plenty of food for at least a few days, and one spare horse. You’ll have to find another for the b’hoy.”

“Hey!” Gabriel protests. “I’ll have you know I’m considerably older than you are.”

“I got some extra coin while on the railroad,” Dean interrupts. “I’ll go see if I can rent him a horse while you pack up.” Ellen is staring at him with this  _ look _ on her face that makes Dean get defensive.  _ “What?” _

“Come here,” she says as she’s already pulling him in, closing him into a surprisingly tight hug. “I’ve missed you, Dean Winchester.” Her voice is muffled into his shoulder. Tense for only a second longer, he eases his posture and smiles, returning the embrace.

“I’ve missed you too.”

She gives him a firm pat on the back before releasing him. “Now, I don’t wanna hear your obituary comin’ ‘round here next; make sure you try and visit every once in a while.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Satisfied, she beckons for Mary to help pack some bags. Huffing a laugh to himself, Dean turns to leave the room, dragging Gabriel along with him.

The errand run doesn’t prove to be too interesting, except for the fact that Gabriel, while a hilarious little guy at times, is unbearably obnoxious. Dean is mentally drained from everything that has already transpired, and yet, somehow, despite being trapped in a pocket watch for almost three decades, Gabriel won’t shut up. He picks out a decent Palomino for his ride that is in the mid-high range Dean had been willing to pay, which is fine and dandy, but he also shoves too many sweets into the travel supplies they’ve selected at the grocery.

_ “Really?” _ Dean scrunches up his face with disdain, sifting through the selection. “You’re just gonna get a stomach-ache with just this.”

Gabriel shrugs. “Three decades without edible ecstasy is three decades too many. If you’re  _ that _ hung up on it, I’ll pay you back when I find my brother again — I’ll even carry them in  _ my _ bags, if you’re gonna be prissy about it.”

The cashier rings everything up, and Dean takes his own items, shoving the sugary foods towards Gabriel and leaving him behind as he struggles to juggle them all in his arms.

When they return back to Ellen’s saloon, they find Mary and Ellen waiting for them in the back, laughing as they converse. There’s a smell of cooking in the air, wafting from Ellen’s personal oven.

“About time you boys were back,” Ellen drawls, getting up from her place on the sofa. Dean groans when he sees their good spirits.

“Please tell me you weren’t…”

Ellen scoffs. “I haven’t seen you up here enough to properly embarrass you. Only  _ Young Dean.” _ Dean groans again.

“She was mainly catching me up on the times,” Mary elaborates. “Just giving me a brief run over. She also told me a bit about Jo and Charlie and Sam.”

“I can tell you  _ all about _ those three,” Dean grumbles under his breath, knowing he can get the upper hand by embarrassing them first.

“You can update me too,” Ellen says before turning to the other man. “Gabriel, was it? Could you be a dear and grab that meat pie out of the oven for me?”

Gabriel gives her a brilliant grin. “I’d love to, ma’am.”

“Alright. Then, could you help set the table for me, Dean?”

“On it, Ellen.”

He’s barely towards the kitchen cupboards when there’s a yelp, causing all the heads within the vicinity to whip around to Gabriel.

Gabriel is standing in front of the open oven, which is gradually heating up the room as warmth spills out of the open door. He’s holding his wrist in pain, but his eyes are wide and his face is slack.

“Really, b’hoy, I thought you’d know better,” Ellen clicks her tongue, pointing over to the nearby counter. “There’s some oven pads right over there, sweetheart.” Gabriel nods, but his eyes are glassy, not fully processing what she’s saying. Instead, he’s staring at Mary, who, when Dean glances her way, has an almost sympathetic look in her eyes. Ellen doesn’t catch any of this, having already returned to preparing the rest of the meal.

As always, Ellen’s cooking is mouth-watering, and they’re all more than happy to dig into the very early dinner. Dean is more than happy to gossip about Sam, Charlie, and Jo as he eats, being kicked under the table by both his mother and Ellen for talking so adamantly with food in his mouth. Gabriel, for a change, stays silent the entire time, only offering a small smile and giving one-word answers when someone tries to drag him into the conversation. It bugs Dean, but he doesn’t comment, even if he can’t quite wrap his head around what got under his skin.

After everything is cleaned up and they’re all packed up and ready to go, Ellen is sad to see them leave so soon, but she sends them off with warm hugs and a compactly packed meal for them to have in the morning. With promises to visit as soon as they can, they mount their horses and head off and out of town, striving to get at least a few miles under their belt before dark.

The ride itself is relatively silent. Part of the mood is dragged down by Gabriel’s blue devils (which Dean suspects his mother is aware of the cause), but Dean is also busy psyching himself up for the conversation that will be inevitable once they stop. He’s burning with curiosity about how his mother is still alive, but he also dreads having to fess up and explain the predicament in which he’s currently found himself.

About two hours out (as it was a late start to begin with), they find a decent patch of greenery and decide to stop for the night. There’s some conversation about who gets which responsibility, but then they settle down, with Gabriel and Mary searching for adequate dry wood as Dean prepares a fire pit. By the time the sun casts shadows so long that almost everything is obscured, Dean has the fire roaring, crackling and popping as it finds sap in the larger chunks of log.

They sit, leaning against their hen skins, all on the same side of the fire, staring into the flames quietly. While Dean rummages through one of his own saddlebags, he finds a stray chocolate bar. Extracting it, he leans forward and bumps it against Gabriel’s knee. Gabriel looks at the offering in surprise before accepting the gift, giving him a tiny smile of thanks before unwrapping it.

“So…” Dean hums.  _ Gotta start somewhere. _ “How didya do it?”

Mary and Gabriel both look at Dean with mild surprise ( _ as if _ they weren’t expecting it) before turning to stare at each other, silently communicating. Gabriel sighs.

“I’m a phoenix.” He grimaces.  _ “Was. _ A phoenix.”

Dean scrunches his face, really doing his best to process Gabriel’s words. “A… A  _ phoenix.” _ Demons were already an odd phenomenon to wrap his head around, but  _ this? _ The fact that they  _ also _ exist makes him wonder just  _ how many things-that-go-bump-in-the-night _ are wandering around out there.  _ How _ this has anything to do with the fact that both Gabriel and Mary are sitting in front of him is beyond Dean, but complaining about clarification now will do nothing.

Gabriel nods. “The package deal: immortality, wings—”

“You have  _ wings?” _

“Not anymore,” he shrugs. “But yes. Kind of. They’re more intangible than entirely corporeal, but I used to be able to partially manifest them” His gaze shifts back to the fire, lost in the flames that flicker upwards and release embers into the night sky. “Our most defining feature, though—according to hunters—is that we burn. We can burn what we touch, and we cannot be burned: we can only absorb that light and heat energy into our beings.”

_ “Burn what you…” _ Dean sucks in a breath, dizzy with more realization. “The White Bandit. He’s… He didn’t kill you.  _ He’s a phoenix too.” _

Gabriel looks amused. “Is that what he’s calling himself?”

Dean twists his face as he thinks. “I don’t think so? The whole  _ ‘White Bandit, Angel of the Desert’ _ schtick was probably created from the myth… well,  _ his _ myth. Legend. The stories people made about him.”

“Baby bro went and became  _ famous _ while I was away?” Gabriel laughs, holding a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Not quite what I expected of him, but I’m proud. I wonder if he’s willing to share the spotlight.”

“They made a whole song about him and everything.”

Gabriel gasps.  _ “Really? _ You  _ have _ to show me it.”

“Never properly learned it; next time we go to a saloon with a piano in there, maybe we can ask. Charlie knows it too, and so does Jo, so if we see them first, we can ask them instead.”

“I can’t  _ wait.” _

Dean grins, his eyes lighting up as his brain begins to connect memories to what Gabriel has told him thus far. “You said you can’t be burned, and you’re immortal too… then how can you be hurt?”

“I take offense to that question—”

He waves him off. “No, no, I just— I found the White Bandit injured—”

Gabriel’s expression flashes with alarm. “Wait, is he—?”

“He’s fine. I fixed him up until he…” Dean pushes through his last memory of the Bandit. “Well, he’d saved me a few times before that, so I did what I could with him.”

“Phoenixes are sensitive to pure iron,” Gabriel finally answers. “I wonder…”

Dean shakes his head. “They were struck gashes, like from someone trying to defend themselves.” He smiles sadly. “One thing I’ll warn you about his legend is… it’s not so pretty. He hasn’t gained the best rep for himself.”

“Why not?” Gabriel looks just as distraught with the notion as Dean feels. “Scary as he looks, he doesn’t mean any harm.”

“He took to taking down bad people, and what I later found, demons, after your death,” Dean explains calmly. “Thing is, legend somehow translates that to being  _ everyone.” _ Gabriel grumbles something unintelligible, undoubtedly cursing out society as a whole.

“I knew he was protective… didn’t think he was so prone to vengeance.”

“You still haven’t explained what happened,” Dean points out, lingering on the detail of Gabriel’s—and ergo, Mary’s—death.

“We were hunting for them,” Mary pipes up, and both of their attentions snap to her. “Your father was tracking a phoenix based on some odd deaths in the area—Gabe later explained to me that they were demons, but we somehow missed the detail, as all that was left of them was their burnt vessels—and I was brought along to help him take it down. As it turned out, there were two of them, and your father and I weren’t as prepared as we thought we were.”

Dean frowns. “So… how did you get  _ out?” _

“While your father was outside dealing with Gabe’s brother, I was busy dealing with  _ this _ hotshot inside the warehouse. Things were heating up quite a bit, and, though evenly matched—”

_ “Well…” _ Gabriel interrupts mischievously.

_ “—Though evenly matched,” _ Mary continues, “we were still nearing the point where I was becoming worried that he’d get away, which, as a decent hunter, I knew wasn’t going to happen. So, I grabbed the watch—”

_ “Wait,” _ Dean blurts out.  _ “You _ were a Holder?”

Mary blinks slowly at him, scanning his face. “Yes,” she admits. “I acquired it when I was a teenager, though I’d never used it before because… well, because I didn’t know you  _ could, _ and by the time I was aware of the fact, it was too dangerous of an object that I could use in a battle I wanted to walk away from.”

Dean pales. “And you used it?”

She nods. “Gabe was using the last scraps of his energy to create this…” She peers over at Gabriel questioningly.  _ “What would you call it? Fireball?”  _ Gabriel shrugs, so she turns back to Dean. “Either way, it took a significant amount of energy and would’ve blown up the entire building. From what I saw left back there, it  _ did _ blow up the entire building.”

Puzzle pieces are gradually sliding together. “So… the  _ fire. _ That was  _ Gabe,” _ Dean murmurs, following along. “And… the watch?”

“Because I knew his fire wouldn’t hurt him, I thought the only way I had a fighting chance was to use the watch.” She sighs and pushes her hair back, out of her face. “The thing is, I’m not exactly sure  _ how _ I got it to work, but the next thing I know, I’ve got us both trapped in the damn thing.”

“You  _ sacrificed _ yourself to make sure Gabe didn’t get away,” it dawns on him. Dean’s eyes flicker between the two of them, as if needing to confirm that his conclusion is correct.

Mary rolls her eyes. “Sacrificed is a bit of a… strong word. Plus, I’m here  _ now, _ aren’t I?”

“Hold on. When you were first released… Gabriel, you said something like you knew… about me? What the hell did you mean by that?”

“I think the direct explanation for what happened to us,” Mary answers in his place, “is that our… time was suspended. Somehow, we were essentially trapped within the watch, our time held, but we were still able to spend it together. The watch… it’s all energy. Solar energy, if I remember correctly. Even  _ we _ had become energy, which is why we could somehow sense that we were placed into your hands. We couldn’t tell exactly who you were, but you were able to hold us without being burned, so we knew you were the next Holder.”

“And I probably became the next one after you disappeared.”

“That’s what we were thinking,” she agrees.

Dean pouts, continuing to run into one obstacle before his complete understanding. “Wait… doesn’t the legend indicate that it always burns up the user? Why  _ are _ you still here?”

Mary hums thoughtfully. “That was something else we theorized in our time inside the watch. I’m not sure how to properly explain it, but basically… it took my time. I was suspended for so long as energy, so that’s how I was  _ ‘paying it back’ _ , or however you want to think of it as.”

“And Gabe,” he says, looking over to the… well,  _ ex-phoenix, _ “you think you’re not a phoenix anymore…?”

Gabriel’s expression screws up painfully as he’s reminded of the detail. “The watch and phoenixes have… a similar background.” When Dean gestures for him to elaborate, Gabriel sighs, reaching for some twigs and tossing them into the fire.

“I was born from phoenix parents, as was my younger brother, but legend has it that very,  _ very _ long ago down the phoenix familial line, the First Ones were born during and nearest to the most concentrated area of a solar flare. That flare was concentrated into one object in specific—that small stone, piece of metal, whatever it was, has been built into that pocket watch—and thus started two lines of solar energy, yadda yadda. Basically, phoenixes and the object that gives Holders their power were created at the same time. As generations passed, phoenixes developed and internalized their energy and it became more a part of  _ them, _ whereas the First Ones were more human than fully-engrained phoenix — but that power still has its roots in solar energy.

“What’s special about the True Phoenix—or Eusolis…  _ the pocket watch _ —is that it absorbs energy. For most people, it burns them up right away. For the Holder—one who’s truly worthy, one who’s said to be like the sun—it burns them up somehow when they harness its power for their chosen use.” Gabriel smiles sadly. “Because we are brothers in lineage, we didn’t know what would happen if a phoenix came into contact with the Eusolis. When I became…  _ trapped, _ it felt like my very soul was being ripped from me, an essence weaves throughout my being torn piece by piece. Now, we think that was Eusolis absorbing my phoenix energy, which is not exactly the same but is nevertheless a distant ancestor of solar energy. It was excruciating at first, and my very existence was torture itself, but as time—outside of the watch, it’s difficult to explain—passed, I was able to bear it until… until there was nothing left. After all, it turns out if you take away what makes a phoenix a phoenix, all that you’re left with is a human.”

Dean is… breathless, for lack of a better word. So much information had just been hammered into his brain, but Gabriel’s explanation is so wondrous and awesome that he can barely keep a grasp on it. Gabriel chuckles weakly at whatever face Dean is making.

“I know you noticed, but it’s why I reacted like that when I burnt myself,” Gabriel continues. He seems… emptier, now. His eyes unseeing, his expression gaunt. “To be able to burn is to be human.”

“I…” Dean gapes. “I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “I know… it’s a lot to take in. I don’t want your pity. And, there’s nothing you could do to make it better. If you rip the veins from one’s body, you can’t weave them back in.”

_ “I didn’t realize…” _ Mary trails off, also staring at Gabriel with heartbreak.

“You couldn’t have known. There was nothing you could do to stop it, either.”

All three of them stare into the fire, unable to break the silence as they process just exactly what had been said.

Gabriel had been alive for… for a  _ long time. _ Dean didn’t ask, and Gabriel never outright hinted at numbers, but his supposed immortality extends that timeframe by a staggering amount. He had seen civilizations rise and fall, extinctions and births, and how the very earth changed beneath his feet.  _ And now that he is mortal? _ A handful of decades—if he’s lucky—is nothing more than a blink of an eye to him.

Without having been paying much attention to it, Dean had let the campfire dwindle. Rousing himself away from the trance-like mindset into which Gabriel’s story had pulled him, he throws a few more sticks and a larger log into the flames, hearing it crackle as the fire eats away at the curling bark.

“The pocket watch, Mom,” Dean idly wonders, staring into the orange glow.  _ “Eusolis. _ Dad didn’t know?”

“No,” she confides. “He didn’t.”

“He apparently looked for this thing all over. Only got my hands on the thing by accident.”

Mary finally turns to him, studying him with a resigned curiosity. “You also need to explain why we’re being followed.”

Dean digs his hand into his pocket, grasping for the damned peacemaker. He pulls it out into the light and sets it onto the ground for both to see.

“I’m being followed because of this,” he explains. “I was given it through Cain—yes,  _ that _ Cain, from the bible, apparently—to protect it and never let it  _ ‘get into the wrong hands’ _ . It’s a Colt model—he died about a decade ago, by the way—which he designed to kill pretty much anything. Saw it kill demons with my own eyes.”

Mary’s eyebrows rise. “It killed  _ demons?” _

“Mhm. I think that’s why it’s so special. Why they want it, or whatever.”

“Wait.” Mary grabs his arm, and the grip is worryingly strong. “You’re being followed by  _ demons.” _

Nodding, he begins to explain everything in detail. He tells them of how he got the Colt in the first place (and, consequently, when he actually  _ learned _ demons were a thing). He tells them about each demon attack, how they tailed him even closer when they realized he was in possession of the revolver. He mentions every storm, how he should’ve realized it in hindsight, and how he inevitably brought them upon their home, letting them destroy the ranch with ease. By the time he’s caught up to the point where he had to leave the railroad camp, he’s so emotionally drained that his voice had grown soft and it now takes more effort to string his sentences together.

“That’s enough, Dean,” Mary says when Dean takes a few seconds of pause. “You need rest. We’ll be out on the trail again tomorrow, so you may as well sleep now.” Dean doesn’t protest, but as he moves to unroll his hen skins, he hears her add on: “You too, Gabriel. I’ll take the first watch.”

“Just wake me when you get tired,” Dean mumbles, already crawling into his blankets.

“I’ve had almost three decades of rest… I think I might just be alright.”

Dean, already blinking slowly at the dying embers, ready to fall asleep at any moment, barely registers the hand that comes to tuck him in, smoothing his hair back in a loving gesture.

“I know you might be a bit old now,” his mother whispers, as if it’s a secret not even the desert should hear, “but would you like me to sing you to sleep?”

Happiness floods him in lazy waves, filling him with tingling warmth. Too tired to respond properly, he barely nods his head, humming his approval.

That night, Dean falls asleep to a mind-numbing peace he rarely gets to experience anymore, listening to a melody he hasn’t heard in a long, long time.


	16. Convergence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alastair is a bad guy for a reason; mind the tag (though, this is not the full extent in which it'll be used).

_ The man bares his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut as he endures the anguish. While his sleeves are long enough to cover his wrists, if he lets his arms drop, the shackles slip onto his bare hands, and there are slivers of skin that occasionally brush the cool metal with searing pain. _

_ Shy away from the pain, and the man’s muscles ache. Relax, and he is subjected to his very flesh burning through. _

_ It’s dark, wherever he is. Every wall is naturally carved in rock, and dampness drips down onto the man, further nagging at his patience. The lack of visibility isn’t reassuring either. _

_ Footsteps echo a ways away, rebounding from every surface of the cavern, louder and louder as the figure approaches. It’s obviously for effect, but the man refuses to react. The footsteps stop a few feet in front of him. The room is lighter now, and when he blinks his eyes open, he can see polished boots pointed towards him. The man closes his eyes again, deciding to not formally acknowledge the new presence. _

_ “Now look what the cat dragged in!” a horribly nasal voice remarks with shrill delight. Somehow, the mere sound of the visitor’s tone makes one feel disgusted simply listening to it, compelling one to want to crawl out of their skin or creep away from its source automatically. The man—stronger than that, having more resolve—manages to stay completely still. “Hm. That won’t do.” _

_ A few more clicks of the shoes against the stone ground, and then the man’s head is being tugged back, his hood sliding off, roughly forcing him to face the visitor by the sharp pull of his hair — harsh enough that there were probably a few strands pulled out with the momentum. _

_ The visitor is smartly dressed for such a dingy cave and looks down upon the man with white eyes — the man has to suppress an uncontrollable shiver at the sight. _

_ “Aren’t you a pretty one?” the visitor murmurs, moving the man’s head from side to side as he analyzes every feature. “Pretty enough to  _ eat.”

_ At the last word, a ring with a metallic grey color on the index finger of his other hand rises to the prisoner’s face, slashing a mark down his cheek and reopening a scar there. The man whines uncontrollably, biting his lip to muffle any further noises. _

_ The captor, taking pleasure in the reaction he succeeded to draw out of the man, uncurls his fingers, taking the offending ring finger and dragging it through the open wound. Muffled at first, the man loses hold of his lip and lets out a strangled cry, mirrored in volume with how the captor presses his finger down with a squelch and swipes it up. Observing the blood-tipped finger meticulously, the captor brings it to his mouth and sucks, tasting every last droplet. The man barely contains himself from gagging. _

_ “Delicious.” The captor smacks his lips. “Simply too tempting.” He frowns, staring obviously at the gash in the man’s face. “I would  _ love _ to taste some more, but alas… I must be patient.” His grin is wolfish. “Dessert should arrive any day now.” _

_ The man narrows his eyes, suddenly concerned. “What do you mean?” His throat feels especially rough, like he hasn’t had water in a long time. _

_ “it has come to my… understanding… that a certain pretty boy has developed a soft spot for you.” The simper on the captor’s face is vile, and the man struggles to hide that he almost immediately knows who the captor is talking about. _

_ “There’s no one coming for me.” Part of it hopeless, part of it hoping. _

_ “Oh, he will. You see, he has something I want.” The captor’s fingers brush horribly against the man’s face, crawling up to pull at the fabric mask that conceals the upper half of his face. “And.” He grips the mask tightly. “I have something he wants.” The mask is ripped off from the man’s face and dropped to the floor beside him. Without it, the man feels exposed, flinching at the minimal loss of warmth. _

_ Recovering quickly, he glares up at his captor. “He won’t fall for it, Alastair,” he bites out, menace weaved into his tone. Alastair only finds this amusing. _

_ “You overestimate the power of one man,  _ Bandit.”

_ The ringed hand presses against the side of his head, burning into his temple, and the White Bandit screams. _

__

* * *

The ride back to the ranch—only for Dean to drop off his mother and Gabe there, and for him to leave right away before he can cause another… incident—is quiet, which Dean tries to take as a good thing. Maybe it’s because they are constantly on the move, maybe it’s because they have three sharp eyes always on the lookout, but they don’t run into any trouble.

Instead, Dean spends a lot of time reacquainting himself with his mother. Long rides have him telling winding stories of his and Sammy’s childhood, how the ranch changed over the years, and—regrettably—what kind of a person John has become. It’s the latter of those stories that has Mary gritting her teeth, silently fuming as she judges her husband’s parenting style and cursing herself out for not somehow finding a way back sooner. Dean reassures her that it’s not her fault, but he knows that his outlook sugar-coats the reality, whereas if Sammy were to tell her the same tales, he’d have no idea how she would react.

Sometimes, Gabriel is the one who will do most of the talking. He’ll tell stories from everywhere on the planet that have happened during periods Dean didn’t even know existed, illustrating the development of humanity throughout history through little observations he made depending on where he happened to be. What entertains Dean even more is when Mary joins in, bringing comments to the discussion that makes it seem like she’s heard all of these little tales a million times before.

_ “Of course I have,” _ she relents when Dean brings up the thought in good humor.  _ “You _ try spending three decades with nothing but his voice to listen to.”

All in all, with the lazy trail rides and the lack of disturbances, it’s all a bit  _ too _ peaceful for someone who is supposedly being track by supernaturally powerful demons. The notion puts Dean on edge.

Which is why he isn’t surprised when he finally hears word of something in Dodge City (which, yes, by the way, has grown into a promising cattle town for the next year); Dean is just surprised at what the news ends up  _ being. _

“Didya hear what happened?” a voice croons, at a table on the other side of the structural beam against which Dean is leaning. His ears perk up reflexively, always on the lookout for town gossip for his own safety.

“Don’t leave me waitin’.”

“You know the White Bandit, dontcha?”

Dean almost drops his drink.

“Heard of that bastard, yeah.”

“Word is, some bandits managed to get their hands on him.”

“What do ya think they’re doin’ with him?” one of them ponders gleefully. The wistfulness makes Dean nauseous.

“I know what  _ I’d _ do with him.” There’s some knowing laughter, and Dean wants to pull at his hair. “Where’re they keepin’ ‘im?”

“I heard somethin’ ‘out Deadman’s cave.”

Dean wracks his brain for the potential location.

“Just ‘cross the Colorado border, up against the Rockies, right?”

“That’s the one.”

Having heard enough, Dean pushes himself off of his post, leaving to search for the rest of his party with a new destination in mind.

* * *

It takes Dean another handful of days pushing Impala to reach Colorado — he was hoping that Mary and Gabriel would find their own way back to the ranch, assuring Mary that it never grew legs and walked away all the years she had been gone, but they had both profusely resisted: Gabriel, because he’s concerned for his brother, and Mary, because she’s unwilling to let her son waltz into danger without any backup. Dean, of course, resisted that point, assuring her that he is more than capable in addition to not wanting her to follow him into the beast’s jaws (… at least without being adequately prepared).

In the end, what actually ended up happening was that both Gabriel’ and Mary’s borrowed horses began to slow down after the first day, not nearly as well-trained as Impala for such stamina-demanding journeys. Neither had stayed behind without a fight, but, as Dean pointed out, they couldn’t ride on baked horses, so they agreed to meet him just eastwards of the newly established Cañon City, where Dean would hopefully be waiting with the White Bandit before they counted down a day or so to go looking for Dean and the Bandit themselves. Dean leaves them with his cooking supplies, taking non-perishable foods for himself for the rest of the trip (which his mother also complained about, but Dean—unthinkingly—said he was used to that kind of diet, and only got away with some pre-cooked food in addition to all the pemmican).

The trip is stressful, mainly due to the worry Dean has about the Bandit since he’s been gone. The ride itself takes days…  _ who knows if the Bandit is even still alive? _ Nonetheless, Dean pushes through it, furiously hoping for the best — after all, this is the  _ White Bandit _ he’s thinking about. If there is one observation he’s made about the guy, it’s that he can hold out a decent fight for himself. Dean just prays that he can hold out for long enough.

He doesn’t bother thinking about the last time he even saw the White Bandit. He doesn’t think about the palpable fear that flit across his expression, looking at Dean in all of his wonder.

_ Blast it all, _ Dean thinks. He’s saved Dean twice before, and Dean still has one more tally to catch up.  _ So what if the White Bandit can’t stand to be in his mere presence? _ Dean ignores the despair that washes over him at the thought.

The last night he stops to sleep (only because Impala is beginning to pant, in need of rest), he lies back and gazes at the stars, losing himself in their distant vastness as his heart hammers and his conscious fails to succumb to slumber.

Dean is not scared. He is not concerned for his own fate, whether he’ll live or die or whatever agony could possibly ensue. He can’t think of any pain that could possibly prevent him from entering that demon-filled cave the next day.

Correction: he doesn’t fear for  _ himself. _ His heart hammers with worry, unease that the White Bandit may not be alive despite all his efforts. He’s flooded with images of what position the White Bandit might be in now, slowly tortured until he bleeds dry.

Dean thinks of how Gabriel’s very essence was ripped from him, stripping him of his phoenix nature with unimaginable suffering, and his stomach turns.

He wakes when the first rays of sun peek over the horizon, packing up quickly and ensuring that Impala is ready to go in record time. His only resolve for pushing Impala so hard these last few miles is that she’ll be able to rest easy, and not to mention that she’ll be tired enough to make it more likely that she’ll stay wherever he leaves her.

There’s an abandoned mining camp about a mile from the cave; the line had run dry years ago, so there is nothing left but the bare bones of small buildings left behind. Dean leaves most of his belongings tucked in the corner of a small shack and Impala in a makeshift corral, hoping that the water from the trough and the grass at her hooves will be enough for the time he is gone. That, and the surrounding trees are plenty enough to shield her from any curious onlookers peering into the camp.

Heart weary but determined nonetheless, Dean sets out on his hike up to the Deadman’s cave with only his overcoat and the items stored within its pockets. His pulse thuds a slow and steady beat in his ears, keeping his senses sharp and tuning into every bush that rustles and bird that calls. That being said, the closer he nears to his destination, the quieter the forest becomes.

Closer still, Dean holds a knife in one hand and has at least one bottle of holy water in his pocket at the ready, both for splashing and dousing the knife. It’s downright stupid, going in this unprepared. His mother was right. He has a few sigils memorized that he’s ready to paint on any surface, but nothing to outright  _ kill _ however many demons are hiding out in—

But he also has the Colt on him.  _ Stupid, stupid Dean! _ Why did he bring the damn  _ Colt? _ While it could serve him some protection, he knows that walking into the cave with it on him is like presenting the demons with a sacrificial offering. Sighing with frustration, he resolves to keep it stowed away in the depths of his duster, hoping that the demons can’t actually  _ sense _ its presence.

At the mouth of the cave, Dean spots two people lingering out in front.  _ What else had he been expecting? _ There’s a ledge on one side that he might be able to push one of them off, hindering them for at least some time, but he will have to somehow slip into the cave without further detection. Crawling to remain hidden in the nearest foliage, Dean crouches, watching the demons chat boredly as he sprinkles holy water over his knife.

In a flash, he’s out, succeeding in catching the demons by surprise. He slits the throat of one, forcing it to fall to its knees as it clutches its sizzling wound, and kicks the other off the ledge he had taken note of earlier, seeing as its limbs tumble uselessly down the cliff. The one with the slit throat is making gurgling noises, so, to prevent further disruption, he stabs it again and drags it to the ledge, heaving it over the side so that he’s left with nothing but a trail of blood.  _ A pretty clean job, _ Dean commends himself,  _ for not being able to kill anyone. _ Confident that he’s cleared the outermost layer of the cave, he dares to venture inside.

The cave itself is eerily quiet. No matter how carefully he treads on his toes, Dean hears each step with clarity, sometimes sending rocks scattering down the incline whenever his foot searches for purchase on a climb. There’s light leading his way, but no company. While he should be grateful that he’s not busy losing his life mere feet from the entrance, the lack of commotion only increases his anxiety.  _ It’s like they’re waiting for him. _ The Colt feels heavy in his pocket, like a weight obvious to the rest of the world.

Systems branch and twist endlessly, much deeper into the mountain than Dean would have thought they extended — his only method of venturing through the labyrinth is by following the light in the distance, which periodically leads to a lone lantern that shines from a rocky ledge, the sole indication of any life within the hauntingly barren walls around him. The rough rocky halls are empty enough that any time there is the slightest noise—a pebble Dean nudges with his foot, the drip or trickle of an underground stream—he tenses, clutching tighter at his knife.

Squeezing past a particularly narrow gap, Dean stumbles out into a cavern, breathing with slightly more ease now that there’s more than a few inches between his shoulders and the earth. Most of the room is dark—wide, with a slanted ceiling that remains low, lower still with the untouched stalactites that reach towards the ground—with a light source at the very end. The cavern narrows again before opening up, concealing most of the scene from Dean, but flickering shadows in the distance reveal some movement.

The trek across the cavern is endless. Every step is taken with extra caution, endeavouring to remain silent as Dean feels the ground, blind to any uneven terrain. At some point, he crosses a still body of water, only alerted of its presence as his boot takes a chilling plunge into its depths. He barely manages to keep himself from hissing at the freezing and wet sensation of a soggy boot, in addition to the splash that echoed around the cave, but he trudges forward, waterline not rising above his boots and steps only somewhat muffled by the water.

By the time he reaches the secondary cavern, brushing the confining stone wall at its entrance with the tips of his un-wielding fingers, Dean steps into the light, drinking in the scene before him.

He was right to suspect that they had been waiting for his arrival: along the perimeter of the cavern, a handful of more sophisticated demons stand at guard, most idly watching for what will unravel before them. They undoubtedly carry an air around them that indicates prestige with ranking, probably based on power, but Dean doesn’t know where to begin imagining how demons can be more powerful that what he has already encountered. Judging by the heavy stench of evil that floods Dean’s senses, he has a suspicion that demons are crawling from their hiding spots behind him, adding to the overwhelming nausea Dean already gets from the few demons in front of him.

At the very end of the room, he pinpoints a man on his knees, dead center of the attention, and Dean’s heart climbs into his throat; before, calm through the familiar rush of adrenaline, his pulse remained loud but steady, something to which Dean could anchor his breathing and let him clear his mind. Unable to tear his gaze away from the prisoner, however, he feels himself freeze, caught in the euphoria of seeing the man again but torn with the fact that it has to be under these unfortunate circumstances.

The man in question, on his knees and facing Dean, is draped with his telltale white poncho, the hood that has fallen onto his shoulders revealing the familiar, disheveled hair reflecting golden highlights. His arms are hidden behind him and underneath his poncho, most likely bound in some way (based on the stiffness in his posture and the way he quivers with exertion, Dean’ll bet it’s iron). Dean doesn’t want to imagine how long he’s been left that way. With his head bent, chin tucked into his chest, the light is angled just so to drape his face in darkness, further concealing it from Dean’s gaze.

Because, after all, the navy-blue mask is puddled in a heap on the floor, under the sole of a pristine, white cowboy boot.

The man standing beside the White Bandit is… vile. At first glance, he doesn’t look any different from anyone else in the cavern, if a little more unkempt: a barber’s cat of a man with his gaunt features and scraggly bristles, wearing a simple button-up underneath his coat. He doesn’t  _ look _ different, but it feels obvious, just standing in his presence. The wry simper across his face makes Dean’s skin crawl, and there’s a tangible  _ energy _ that seeps from him, evident even in the way the other demons look upon the man.

“How  _ wonderful _ of you to join us, Dean. You’ve kept us waiting.” Somehow, his nasal voice only sets Dean further on edge, filled with a sense of disgust at the way he tasted Dean’s name. How he knows who he is is a mystery to Dean, and one he isn’t too keen on discovering. “Do tell us…  _ how was the trip?” _

“Who are you?” he glares at him, confident once confirming the steadiness of his own voice. The demon’s smile only widens.

Ignoring Dean, he turns to his prisoner, rubbing his chin in thought. “Didn’t I tell you he’d come? Don’t be  _ rude _ … Greet our guest.” Bending only at the knee, the demon kicks the Bandit in the side with enough force that he’s thrown to the side. The Bandit barely manages to keep his head bent, still trying to keep his identity from Dean in vain. Some part of the thought hurts Dean, but he can understand the need for a hidden identity…  _ can’t he? _

As the Bandit is thrown to the side, Dean’s suspicions are confirmed when he hears the rattle of chains with the movement, along with the cry of pain and the sizzling of flesh that accompanies the fall. Dean is already surging forward, meaning to help the Bandit from his agony with a desperate  _ “No!” _ , but is stopped with the sharp  _ “Don’t!” _ that’s hissed through gritted teeth. Dean doesn’t move from his position, knife gleaming with holy water in the light where it’s outstretched, as he stares at the heaving shoulders of the White Bandit, slowly readjusting himself so that the sizzling stops.

“Oh?” the demon sneers, looking between them with unsettling amusement. “I knew you were going to be  _ fun _ , but I didn’t dare to imagine you’d be  _ this _ fun.” Something settles in the pit of Dean’s stomach.  _ Fuck. _

The White Bandit is trembling, despite whatever tough façade he’s always had. He has returned to his original position, if shifted slightly, shoulders hunched with pitiful defensiveness. It’s been days since Dean first heard of the rumor in Dodge City… who knows how long it’s been before  _ then? _ Still… being chipped away at for days, maybe even  _ weeks, _ was probably excruciating, so the Bandit is in good shape considering the torment he has most likely endured. It’s a miracle he’s even alive.

“You still haven’t properly introduced yourself,” the demon simpers, toeing at the mask with the pointed tip of his boot.  _ Neither have you, _ Dean snarks in his head, barely remembering to know better than to say it out loud.

“We’re already acquainted,” Dean says pointedly, glancing down towards the White Bandit. His eyes are drawn to the darkened features of his face, but he forces himself to resist prying, if only to prove his loyalty to the myth.

“So I’ve heard… What  _ I  _ want to know is if you’re  _ acquainted _ … with  _ him _ …” he tilts his head towards the Bandit, “or  _ this.” _ With one kick, the navy-blue mask slides across the stone floor to Dean’s feet, bunching up against his soggy boots.

Staring at the crumpled fabric, he crouches down slowly, wary of the demons following his every move. When his fingers grasp at it, he straightens back up with equal languidness, unable to tear his gaze away from the familiar mask hanging limply in his hand he only felt tending to the wounds on the Bandit’s face. Now, it’s streaked with mud, having been so carelessly dragged across the ground.

Making sure that Dean is looking at him again, the demon continues.  _ “As I was saying _ … you haven’t introduced yourself yet.”

Dean barely watches how the demon’s bony hand digs into the Bandit’s hair, wrenching it with enough force that the Bandit’s head whips back, his neck bared. Stubborn to stay true to his word, Dean’s eyes slam shut and he forces himself to look down, training his eyes to stare determinedly at the mask in his hand when they peek open.

_ “Alastair, don’t do this,” _ the Bandit growls. His voice is rough like sandpaper, and even so, hauntingly familiar.  _ How many weeks had it been since Dean last heard him speak? _ He had been unconscious most of his time at the ranch after the barn incident.

“Do  _ what?” _ Alastair sneers. “And here I was, being kind to let you see each other’s faces one last time like this.” There’s sizzling, and the Bandit is screaming, the cacophony inescapable as it echoes off the cavern walls, suffocating Dean from every angle. He flinches, gritting his teeth and clenching the mask, his fist shaking with how hard he’s squeezing it.  _ Look at the mask, don’t look away. _

There’s devastating silence, after. Dean barely notices that the Bandit has stopped screaming because of how the sound echoes around the cavern, clouding his head with ringing turmoil. Somehow, the silence is even more unnerving, and Dean doesn’t dare move a muscle.

That silence is first broken by the White Bandit.

“Dean,” he says. Defeated. Vulnerable.

Shaking his head, Dean grits his teeth.  _ “No.” The mask, keep looking at the mask. _

_ “Dean,” _ he pleads.

Resolve crumbling with nothing left to do, Dean takes a deep breath. The voice is too familiar, too familiar for one hazy night many months ago. He doesn’t remember giving him his name, either.

Dean lifts his head, his gaze lagging behind, to look upon the face of his savior.

And everything stops.

_ Cas. _

Castiel. That’s Cas staring back at him, looking over his cheeks with his head tilted back from the pull of Alastair’s hand, the wound across his cheek—the  _ Bandit’s _ wound, the one to which Dean personally tended—freshly re-opened and bleeding down the side of his face. That’s  _ Cas _ staring back at him, on his knees and shackled, the white poncho bleeding a dark red once again. That’s  _ Cas _ staring back at him, indescribably sad at the mere sight of Dean, filled with hopelessness Dean’s never  _ dreamed _ of seeing on either Cas  _ or _ the White Bandit.

Cas. And the White Bandit.

His brain is empty, buzzing like metal at the brink of a thunderstorm, static and nothing else. He can’t think. He can’t move, and he can’t react.

The first thing that comes through, however, with crystal clarity, is  _ you owe him more than you could ever imagine. _

And somehow, that’s what snaps him out of it.

_ “Cas,” _ he breathes, and he feels so much lighter, like the demons that surround him aren’t as imposing anymore, like the earth that surrounds him can crumble at his mere touch. His grip loosens on the mask.

_ “Why _ did you come?” The bitter desperation is unmistakable. Dean gulps and corrects his stance, tall and proud.

“Because I heard you were in deep trouble,” he responds, offering him a small smile. For some reason, this only seems to further pain Cas, judging by how his face twists.

_ “Touching reunion, _ ladies,” Alastair interrupts, horrible tone slicing into their moment like a blade. He then regards Cas with: “I  _ did _ tell you it would work.”

“What do you  _ want?” _ Dean says with exasperation. He succeeds in capturing Alastair’s attention, which is enough for him at the moment.

“What do  _ I  _ want?” He strokes his chin mockingly, humming to draw out the wait. “Maybe I just wanted to see  _ him _ suffer. Watch as I rip the skin from your flesh strip by strip, as I roast you slowly over a fire until you’re cooked alive, as I leave your corpse for nothing but a meal for the maggots and mice that dwell in these caves.”

As horrible as that all sounds, the part that dwells in his mind isn’t the torture that he would potentially endure, but rather the fact that it’s  _ his _ suffering that is meant to be used as a torture device for Cas. His eyes flicker to his… to his savior. The savior that has his own eyes shut, like he’s praying to a god that isn’t out there.

_ Why would someone like Dean matter at all to the great White Bandit? _

_ “You shouldn’t’ve come here,” _ Cas repeats himself, tone… almost  _ protectively _ harsh.

“Could you  _ please _ stop saying things?” Alastair gripes. “Unless you have any suggestions, of course.” With a devilish grin, he brings the ringed finger up to Cas’s defiant stare and drags it lazily across the open wound, tearing another harrowing cry from the man.

_ “Stop!” _ Dean shouts, stepping forward. Alastair, though—miraculously—listening to his order, holds the ring precariously over the wound, supported by the tips of his other fingers pressing into the unshaven flesh of Cas’s cheek. Cas is heaving, recovering from the last onslaught, but Dean stubbornly glares at the demon. “Take  _ me, _ if that’s what you want. Take me and let  _ him _ go.”

“No,  _ Dean—!” _ Cas begins, but is immediately drowned out by the maniacal laughter that rips from Alastair.

_ “You?” _ he sneers. “You think I want  _ you? _ What makes  _ you _ so special? If I wanted a monkey, I’d grab the first one I saw.”

It’s stupid, but something shatters within him. Dean really  _ is _ disposable. Just one other flicker in the grand expanse of time. Insignificant. Useless.

“Why do you  _ think _ I was looking for your precious little White Bandit in the first place?” Alastair continues, unfazed. “It’s not every decade you get your hands on a phoenix.”

Cas’s eyes widen at the admission, but it’s the one thing to which Dean doesn’t bat an eye.

_ “So?” _ Dean asks. “What good is a phoenix to  _ you?” _

Alastair looks delighted.  _ “Oh? _ Of course you wouldn’t know.” With a swipe that only wrenches a sharp cry from Cas, Alastair collects a smear of blood on his finger, bringing it to his mouth and savouring it with disturbing enjoyment. “Phoenix ash holds properties for immortality. Consume one bird, and  _ nothing _ can kill you.”

The nausea rises unexpectedly, and Dean has to take a few breaths to push it back down again. All this torture…  _ is it even necessary? _ Or does that sadist get a kick out of it? Dean doesn’t even want to ask.

What is a mortal to immortality? What could Dean possibly have that would appeal to Alastair more than what Cas has to offer to him? His mind flits to the Colt, stowed away in the depths of his overcoat, but he dismisses it instantly, remembering the promise he made to Cain… before his mind settles on something else.

“What if I had something  _ else _ you want?” he proposes, hand without the knife already digging in his pocket, having stowed away the Bandit’s mask. Dean strides forward so that he’s only a few paces in front of Alastair.

Alastair raises an eyebrow, presumably holding a hand out for any other demons around the room that made a start when Dean moved. “What makes you think I  _ want _ anything else?”

Plucking out a small leather purse, Dean holds it out in the air between them. “Have you ever heard of the watch with a sun and twelve moons on its front?” Horror dawns on Cas’s expression, but Alastair’s eyes gleam with intrigue. Taking a gamble, Dean continues. “Aren’t you a demon? Why do you  _ need _ a little more immortality? Wouldn’t  _ unimaginable _ power be just a bit more appealing?” He doesn’t miss how Alastair’s eyes flash.

“You have  _ that?” _ he pries, almost disbelieving, but there’s an unmistakable hunger to his tone.

Dean nods slowly, unwrapping the leather cord that holds it together to reveal its contents. “Yours, if you set him free.” The gold of the watch glints in the lantern light, easily catching the eye of everyone in the cavern.

Alastair stares at it for a long time. Whatever demon senses he has can probably tell it’s authentic, especially due to the fact that his interest only grows over time, rather than him souring to accuse Dean of lies. Once his eyes are alight, a grin barely contained on his face, he stares at Dean, boring into the depths of his soul.

“You have yourself a deal, Dean,” he says at last, and too much relief floods from Dean considering he’s in the middle of a demon-infested cave. Breathing out through his lips, Dean pays special attention in wrapping up the leather purse again, careful not to touch it and securing it so that the watch won’t fall out.

“Release him,” Dean orders, and feels a surge of confidence at ordering a damned demon—and a high ranking one, at that—around. Alastair smirks and snaps his fingers, which is followed by the sound of iron shackles dropping heavily to the ground. Cas yelps when they brush his bare skin, but then he brings his hands out in front of himself, filled with burn marks and shaking. At the compliance, Dean drops to a crouch, setting the leather purse at his own feet. When Cas manages to stand and take shaky steps towards Dean, he kicks the watch over to Alastair, true to his promise.

Wrapping an arm around Cas, he supports his weight as they trudge to the exit, their backs to Alastair. Dean glances back only once, only to see Alastair watching Dean leave as he feels the weight of the watch in his palm. Seeing him with the device that saved his mother and Gabriel makes him revolted, filled to the brim with fury, but he knows he’d give it up any day, as long as it means that Cas can be saved.

The trek across the larger cavern is excruciating. Though all Dean can hear is the combination of their breaths, the way their feet slosh through the water of the cave lake, he’s certain the darkness is crawling with demons, waiting to pounce, restrained only by Alastair’s words. It’s quite possibly the longest few minutes of Dean’s life.

When they reach the narrow entrance to the tunnel system, Dean lets Cas squeeze through first, following behind once he’s sure the other has made it through. Almost immediately, Cas grabs Dean’s arm, a lot of his strength having evidently returned.

_ “Are you stupid?” _ Cas hisses, conscious nonetheless of how easily sound travels against the rock. Dean blinks, barely staying on his feet as he’s dragged along.

_ “I just saved your  _ life _ back there,” _ he hisses back.  _ “Most people would be  _ grateful.”

The grip only tightens.  _ “You really  _ are _ stupid.” _ Stubbornness flares inside of Dean, but before he can get any words out, Cas is continuing.  _ “You really think Alastair is not clever? We’re not getting out of this cave alive.” _

_ “Yeah, well… at least I gave us a chance.” _

Sighing heavily, Cas stops, causing Dean to crash into his startlingly solid figure.  _ “Hold on tight,” _ is all he gives in warning before he’s holding Dean in his arms and—

And Dean’s not really sure what’s happening, but it’s  _ breathtaking. _ He can’t open his eyes with the sheer force at which they’re moving, but he can hear the wind whistle shrilly past his ears, only hinting at the speed at which they could be traveling.

_ Wings. _ Cas has  _ wings. _

Dean wants to whoop, but he bites his lip when he remembers that they’re trying to escape. Still, it fails to quell the beam that rises from within him.

In mere seconds, the flight is over, and they’re both tumbling into foliage just outside of the cave opening. Dean manages to roll onto his shoulder so that he’s up on two feet in one fluid motion, but Cas tumbles into some bushes, coughing roughly. Rushing to his side, Dean heaves him back up, pulling him in the direction where he left Impala only a few hours previous.

“C’mon, big boy,” he coaxes his companion, trying not to worry about all the coughing that is going on.  _ He can ask about the wings later. _

Cas is flailing to grab at Dean’s arm, gripping so tightly that Dean doesn’t doubt there will be bruises.

“We… We need to go,” he barely manages to say before descending into another coughing fit. Dean spares only a few seconds to grab the canteen that is hiding underneath his own jacket, slung over his shoulder. He unscrews its cap and shoves it into Cas’s hands, who scrabbles for it and drinks like a dying man. Coughing his throat clear, he wheezes as Dean screws the cap back on. “Fast… Didn’t get… that far…”

“You’ve been in there too long,” Dean grumbles, pulling him along for a change. “Pick up the pace. Can you run?”

Cas shakes his head. “Too.. Too slow. I need—”

Dean wrenches himself from Cas’s bruising grasp, holding onto his arm instead. “You are  _ not _ flying like this.”

“They’ll catch—”

“Then get better,” he says before turning, tugging Cas along to retrace his steps from earlier. Cas gives in, able to jog beside him as they nimbly jump over roots and dodge jutting rocks in the path.

After a few minutes, Dean almost falls backwards when Cas stops and grasps his arm. “I’m better,” he announces, only somewhat unconvincingly. At least his wound isn’t bleeding anymore.

“Alright, we should have about two-thirds of a mile—”

Cas’s brow furrows. “That’s too close. We need—”

Dean throws his arms up in the air. “Well, I’m not leaving without Baby!”

_ “Dean, _ there’s no  _ time. _ We barely escaped as it is—”

“Then  _ go!” _ he bursts, throwing Cas’s arm down.  _ “Go, _ I already got you this far! But I’m not leaving without my Baby.” And with that, he turns on his heel and huffs away, stomping if he wasn’t more concentrated on moving with haste. He can hear a frustrated sigh before the light steps that catch up to him.

“Where is she?” Cas relents. Dean smirks, more empty and automatic than anything.

“Less than a mile thataway. There’s an abandoned mining camp.”

Cas grabs Dean and pulls him close, and they’re in the air again for what feels like the blink of an eye. In the next moment, they’re both standing in the middle of the mining camp, directly beside Impala’s corral. Dean has to take a second to collect himself.

“This is a bad idea,” Cas grumbles.

“Those are my specialties,” Dean winks. Cas’s face remains stony. When he turns to the side, clearing his throat like he’s carefully concealing another cough, Dean rolls his eyes. “See? You wouldn’t’ve been able to last, anyways.”

Cas glares at him, and Dean finds it oddly endearing. “Yes I would,” he grouches.

“All my eye.”

Leaving Cas to grumble to himself, Dean rushes to the shack where his belongings are tucked away, still packed and ready to go. He heaves them all onto his figure, dragging them out to Impala (who seems okay, thank the lord) so he can saddle her up. Cas is immediately at his side, silently helping him secure the saddle bags.

“You’re right,” Dean murmurs. His hand is against Impala’s coat, obscuring some of the speckled gradient, and he studies its familiar pattern as he speaks. “I’m going to be a lot slower.” His fingers curl slightly. “And I might not make it, but I can’t leave my Baby behind. You…” He gulps. “You can leave me behind. I came here to save you because… because I’m so far in your debt, more than I ever thought in one man… and the world needs you. They may not know it, but they need you… they need you like I did, every time you found me.”

He can’t see Cas’s face, but he can definitely hear the incredulous inhale. “Dean.” He lets himself look at Cas, standing at his side with a hand holding Impala’s reins. His features are softer than Dean remembers. “Bee is a normal horse. The reason he was able to carry the two of us is because I was carrying our weight.”

Dean is startled out of his self-pitying state solely by belatedly processing that the White Bandit’s  _ “phantom horse” _ is just a really big Arabian named  _ Bee. _ Blinking, he further realizes that Cas is talking about his wings.

“I…” he gapes. “Will you fit?”

Cas shrugs, glancing at the saddle bags and the bed roll. “I’ll hold on tight.” He cuts himself off abruptly, perking up like a dog hearing something in the distance. “They’re almost here.”

Grinning, tapping into a new source of energy that apparently has yet to be exhausted, Dean sticks his foot in the stirrup and heaves himself up onto his saddle. “Well then… we better get goin’, shouldn’t we?” In a flurry of what Dean  _ swears _ sound like feathers, Cas is suddenly sitting on the blankets that extend past Dean’s saddle, holding onto Dean’s waist as if he were going to pick him up. Impala shifts her back legs, as if adjusting momentarily to the new weight.

Dean clicks his tongue, and then they’re flying,  _ soaring _ through the trees. At first, Impala stumbles before she catches herself, easily adapting to the new limits available at her disposal as she climbs to a gallop. Cas is silent, concentrating on maneuvering his wings both to ease their weight off of Impala’s back as well as to add to her speed like a gliding eagle… but Dean, elated by the thrill, lets out a whoop. The hands at his side squeeze him chidingly, reminding him that they are still being followed, but Dean catches the puff of muted laughter against his neck anyhow.

Impala has always been regarded for her stamina and strength, but the new lightness expands her potential, which is something even she recognizes as she pushes herself to maintain her speed for such an extended period of time. Before long, they reach the area around where Dean promised he’d meet his mother and Gabriel, so he leads Impala up to a higher outlook that allows an expansive view of the desert. He hadn’t seen any sign of his mother or Gabriel, but they will probably make it across the stretch before them within the next day or two.

With Impala slowing at the overhang, Cas is suddenly off Impala’s back, rolling on the shaded ground to cough and catch his breath. Eagerly, Dean dismounts and runs over to him, flopping down to stretch and bask in the coolness with him.

“We  _ did _ it,” Dean gasps, breathless and laughing. “Holy  _ shit, _ we did it. We’ve shaken them off our trail by now.”

“They’ll find us soon,” Cas reminds him before coughing again. Dean, remaining on the ground, fumbles around his jacket to remove his water canteen and hand it to his companion. Cas accepts it gratefully, nodding as he tries to stop coughing long enough to bring the canteen to his lips. “If my wings didn’t—”

Dean waves his protests away. “We got out; that’s all that matters. Now we just wait here for our backup, and then we can move. Plus, I’ve memorized enough anti-demon sigils that I think we can hold up for a while at least.”

They lie there for a few moments, basking in their newly secured freedom. Impala wanders off to a nearby stream, also exhausted from the ride.

Rolling his head to the side, Dean stares at the man beside him. He feels a little stupid for not connecting the dots earlier, but everything makes so much sense now that he knows the White Bandit and good ol’ Castiel are one and the same.

The gash, while ugly, is not bleeding anymore, and Cas’s eyes are shut, eyelashes dark against his cheeks. Now that he can sink into some semblance of comfort, Cas looks tired and starved, the abuse from the past week or so finally catching up to him. His heaving chest begins to slow, air flowing from between his parted lips.

Dean lays there, staring at the one that  _ he _ saved, and lingering for far too long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, Dean is kinda stupid... it's okay, because we still love him <3


	17. Unmasked and Upended

Both agree that hiding out at the high vantage point they’ve found will be safer than going into the city; however, because Dean had run off with a limited food supply in the first place, they were left with nothing to eat for the wait, so Dean decides to run down to Cañon City for a few errands.

Cas protests weakly when Dean first makes the proposition, but he’s still exhausted from being held for so long, and Dean points out that going into town with blood all over one’s clothes and a suspicious gash across one’s face isn’t exactly the most inconspicuous. Dean refills the water canteen for him and asks him to ward their little overhang while he’s gone. Cas barely nods from where he is on the ground. 

Dean is worried about the man, biting his lip as he leads Impala down the steep slope, but reasons that neither of them can recover without food. He’s the White Bandit, for Christ’s sake: if he’s survived captivity under Alastair, he can handle a few hours by himself. If it’ll make himself feel better, then he’ll be a bit more lenient with his spending, get them some decent grub to celebrate.

While he doesn’t want to bake Impala, Dean’s also worried about how close the sun hovers over the horizon, especially with how short the days are becoming. He does his best to memorize landmarks as he makes his way down to the newer town, but everything looks different in the dark anyhow. The time constraint is the reason why Dean rushes with his purchases, not letting himself hesitate as he brings them to the general store counter and pays, stuffing everything into Impala’s saddlebags so that they’re leaving again with plenty sun for the journey.

That time constraint, Dean realizes when he returns, is the reason why they’re left with only one bedroll between the two of them.

It’s not that big of an issue, Dean tells himself. There’s been plenty of times he’s had to share close sleeping quarters with others, and there was never any cause for concern… plus he actually  _ knows _ Cas. He slept beside the man the entire time they worked on the railroad together. Sure, sleeping  _ beside _ each other and sharing the same damn hen skin is a bit of a… different affair, but it’s only sleeping. That’s it. Just… closer, to the other person.  _ How much do phoenixes sleep anyway? _

There’s already a fire going, waiting for Dean’s return. At some point, Cas must’ve roused himself and scavenged for the firewood that sits in a somewhat pathetic pile beside the makeshift pit. Cas sits behind it, burning hands catching light to the logs. Dean dismounts and brings Impala for a drink before joining him.

“Got enough bait to last us a few days, we should be good for now,” Dean announces as he saunters up to the campfire, dropping all of the saddlebags he’s carrying in one pile. Cas nods absently, his eyes alight with the reflected flames. “Left most of my crap with Mom, but the pan should cover everything.”

Sap pops loudly, and when Dean turns to look, he sees Cas’s hands are still in the fire, devoured by flames but unharmed. Cas does not let his gaze stray, but his eyes are distant, unseeing.

“Are you hungry yet?” Dean continues, just to fill the space for a little while. Even without a response from Cas, Dean rambles. “What am I saying, you probably are. Even if you aren’t, I’m gonna whip somethin’ up. Get a nice meal in before a nice, long nap.” He leaves his cooking supplies by the campfire before getting distracted. “Hey, you do those sigils yet?” Cas’s head tips forward slightly before straightening.

Sighing, Dean lets him be, going over to the protective overhang just to make sure Cas covered all the bases. Turns out there’s symbols that Dean both knows and  _ doesn’t _ know, which means Cas was thorough. Each sigil is painted onto the stone in ash, which, if it rains, it might become an issue, but as the possibility is quite unlikely, the dark smears definitely confirm their completeness.

When he ambles back to the fireside, Cas is still inattentive, lost in his own world; the poor guy is probably still reeling in whatever happened to him over the past few weeks. Dean grabs a can of beans and some bacon and gets to work.

Night falls too soon, barely hinting at the nearing winter. Insects thrum from where they are hidden and makes the desert come alive around them. Dean falls into the easy rhythm of his cooking, watching as the bacon grease sizzles and pops, cutting it into chunks before adding some airtight beans and stirring the concoction. The movements are meditative, easing his mind into a static hum.

“You can ask.”

Dean almost startles, but manages to contain it to a sharp intake of breath. He’d forgotten he has company. Cas is still staring into the fire when Dean glances his way.

“Ask about what?” he says. Wracking his brain, Dean can’t remember what was the last thing they had been talking about.

“About earlier. What I am.”

Dean furrows his brow. “The White Bandit?”

“No. A phoenix.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

The beans begin to bubble. “... Did you  _ want  _ me to ask something?”

When Dean glances to Cas again, he finds him with his eyes narrowed, finally staring at Dean quizzically. “Did you  _ know _ ?”

Dean blinks. “Did I…  _ no! _ I didn’t know you were a phoenix until that son of a bitch ran his big ol’ bazoo. Phoenix  _ or  _ the damn Bandit.”

Cas looks amused. “You didn’t figure out I was the famed White Bandit until I looked at you?”

Sighing, Dean pinches his nose and stirs their meal. “Yes, I know—”

“When you first saw my face in Dodge City, I was sure—”

“Yes, I  _ know— _ ”

“—maybe you just didn’t want to confess—”

“ _ Please _ , I’ve already admitted—”

“—Did you not look while I was unconscious? It’s only a piece of fabric—”

“I get it!” Dean bursts, finally getting Cas to stop forcing him to realize just how dense he’s been. “I know, I know, but the amount of times we’ve bumped into each other, across Kansas… it just felt unlikely. A coincidence is a coincidence.”

“We did meet often for travellers,” Cas muses. 

“Maybe some freak force of nature is trying to bring us together,” Dean grumbles sarcastically, but there’s no response from Cas. He doesn’t dare check to see what kind of reaction he has to the idea. “Doesn’t matter. Hell, I only figured demons were real on my way back from Santa Fe, and with all this bullshit that’s happenin’, I just gotta take it in stride.” The beans look like they’re done, so Dean pulls the pan from the fire to let it cool. He twists himself to fumble for some bowls and spoons in his belongings.

“You’re… not scared of me.”

Dean whips around incredulously. “ _ Scared? _ Why would I be  _ scared  _ of you?”

“Because of the immense power I have as a phoenix compared to you as a human. With strength alone, I could crush you with my bare hands.”

“Are you  _ trying  _ to make me scared of you?” His eyes flicker to where Cas’s arms are hidden underneath the bloody poncho, the ones that he had so dutifully noticed during those long, hot, and sweaty days on the railroad. He gulps. “Because it’s not working.”

Cas cocks his head to the side. “I don’t understand your bold stupidity.”

Dean bristles. “What are you  _ talking  _ about?”

“You  _ did  _ walk into Alastair’s hideout without anything to kill the demons.”

He shrugs. “I mean… I had the Colt with me.”

Cas’s eyes widen. “You had  _ what?” _ he hisses. “Are you stupid  _ and  _ crazy?”

“Hey, cool it, Cas.” Dean holds his hands up to calm him. “I never actually took it out.”

“If they ever found out that you had it with you—”

“But they didn’t.”

“You realize that’s probably why they lured you there in the first place, don’t you?”

Ah. So…  _ not  _ as a torture device for Cas. It makes more sense to Dean, even if the logic hurts. He starts spooning half of the beans and bacon into one of the bowls.

“Alastair’s the head of them, isn’t he,” he says instead. “All those damn demons… they work for him.”

“That’s what I’ve found. Even when I was with my brother, we endeavoured to find Alastair and get rid of him, which would then hopefully make it easier to dispose of his lackeys.”

“So that’s it, then.” He hands one of the bowls and a spoon to Cas, who actually takes it. “We have to beef that evil son of a bitch.”

Cas swallows his mouthful of food with a chiding gaze. “You say that like it’ll be easy. We barely made it out of there as it was, and the demons were almost  _ letting  _ us free.”

“How else are we gonna stop running?”

The withering look Cas gives him makes his chest sink. “I’ve always been running, Dean.”

There are many things he wants to say, things that don’t even make sense, but Dean stops himself by shoving some dinner into his mouth.

They spend their energy eating for a while, only sparing glances at each other when the other isn’t looking. Though he’s tired, like his very bones are heavy in his flesh and compel him to collapse, Dean’s mind flits momentarily to the one bedroll; Cas is undoubtedly exhausted beyond whatever Dean feels, so it’s only right to give him the hen skins. Dean will sit by the fire instead, claiming to be on guard. Perhaps it will be ideal to boil up some coffee for the night in a bit.

Out of habit—once he pushes his empty bowl to the side—his hand seeks out the familiar warmth of the pocket watch, and he only remembers his actions from earlier when he only grasps the cool metal of the Colt instead. He rubs his thumb against the barrel, feeling the grooves under the pad of his fingerprint.

“Why did you leave?” he asks, surprising himself with his own voice. “As the Bandit, why did you leave?”

Cas frowns, scraping his spoon against the bottom of his own bowl. “When?”

“Back at the ranch. I took care of you, hid you from everyone else, and even tried to fight by your side, but you fled. You didn’t even say goodbye.”

His face scrunches before easing. “Oh, when I… I remember now.” Cas sighs and places his empty bowl to the side. “You had—as you call it—the  _ ‘Colt’ _ . You were also pointing it in my direction. It’s the one thing that  _ can  _ kill me, Dean.”

“You-... You thought I was gonna  _ beef  _ you.”

“Not... necessarily. I…” He pauses, restless in his spot. “Trust does not come easily to me, Dean.”

Not knowing how to respond, Dean shifts the conversation. “So what happened to you, then? I never got the whole story.”

“Oh, that?” The grin is feeble, but it’s there. The most Cas usually allows. “It was after I had taken care of some demons, in fact. Took refuge in a farm, and the owner found me. I wasn’t doing anything, but he panicked and attacked me anyhow. Lucky him, his weapon of defence happened to be an iron rod.” He blinks. “Iron being—”

“—the weakness of a phoenix, yeah, yeah,” Dean waves off. Cas raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything else about it. “So you were beaten half to death by some disgruntled alfalfa desperado?”

“And crashed into your barn, that is correct.”

Dean grins. “What a noble way for the great White Bandit to go out; slayer of demons, defeated by a lowly granger!”

“ _ I do not— _ ” Cas frowns. “The image witnesses have created of me make me seem to be more than I actually am.”

That is just… blatantly untrue. As it is, Dean is pretty sure he’s one of the only whose associated really damned, black-eyed demons to the White Bandit. Plus, his opinion is solely based on first-hand experience.

“There’s no need to be modest,” he says. “Whatever your motive, the image came from  _ something  _ — and that’s how I’ve always seen you.”

Cas’s expression is terrifyingly blank. “That’s how you see me?”  _ Unreachable. Set on a pedestal. To look, but not to touch. _ Cas doesn’t say it, but the words hang in the air between them.

_ Is he out of his league? _ Cas definitely deserves better than Dean, but…

“I knew a White Bandit and I knew Cas,” Dean admits, deciding. “As the Bandit, you… didn’t feel real. Like a dream. But Cas? Cas I got to know on the railroad. Cas is…” he breathes out, unused to expressing the statement, and forces himself to smile in an effort to collect the confidence, “Cas is a friend.”

Cas pouts. “You see me as two people?”

“I… I know it’s stupid I didn’t connect the dots earlier, but… I knew two different people. Hearing that they’re the same person… well, it takes a while to really believe somethin’ like that.” Cas stares at him unblinkingly, long enough that Dean isn’t quite sure where to look or where to place his hands. His gaze eventually falls on the fresh gash on Cas’s face, so he breaks the silence instead. “How are you feelin’? Looks like it’s stopped bleeding, which is why I almost forgot about it, but we need to clean it up,” he says, mirroring on his own face.

“I’m fine,” Cas protests. Dean rolls his eyes.

“Look, I know you’re immortal, and all, but whether you die or not, an infection ain’t all peaches and cream.”

Cas doesn’t say anything else, so Dean takes that as a win on his part.

Grabbing the saddlebag with his medical supplies and his canteen, he crawls over to crouch beside Cas. Cas peers at him, his head following Dean’s movement, but fails to adjust himself to accommodate Dean. Concentrating on the task at hand, Dean takes the liberty to inch as close as possible, squinting at what he can see of the gash.

It’s worse than what he dealt with back at the ranch. The burning Cas endured with the actual contact at least mostly sealed the blood vessels, but the wound is inflamed and angry and bloody enough that it obscures the full nature of the wound. Grumbling, Dean pours some water on a clean rag and tries to clean it off as best as he can.

“ _ Can’t see shit, _ ” he murmurs to himself. His touch is gentle, trying to brush away the dried blood with the damp fabric, but with one accidentally harsher dab, Cas is hissing through his teeth. Dean mumbles an apology, still distracted by trying to discern the damage. Hands holding his face, fingers threading into his hair, he moves Cas’s face this way and that, attempting to find the perfect patch of firelight. “ _ Should’ve done this earlier. _ ”

Cas purses his lips. “If you can’t see—”

“Nuh uh, I’m fixing my handiwork. I’ll knock you out if I have to.”

He sighs, like he isn’t the one being tended to. “I was just going to ask if you needed more light.”

Dean pauses, his hands held dumbly in the air. “Didn’t see a lantern near here.”

Instead of answering, he brings out his furthest hand, fingers clenched into a fist. Dean drops his own hands as they both stare at the light that grows, leaking through Cas’s fingers. Very slowly, he lets each digit uncurl, revealing the hearth that glows from his palm. The skin holds the heat like dying embers, flickering so softly that the change barely makes a difference — it’s like it’s breathing, as if the very fire is alive.

“Does this help?” Cas asks, and he’s looking right at Dean, his eyes brilliantly reflecting the glow in the palm of his hand; passionate, powerful… and warm. The hand is held on the side of the face Dean isn’t working on, relaxed but aimed towards Cas’s face, revealing every groove across his face.

“Uh, yeah… yeah,” Dean gapes, staring, but not quite sure where, entranced by the raw energy that radiates from the man in front of him. “Yeah, that… should be enough.” Taking a deep breath, he gets back to work.

The wound is deeper from Alastair's ministrations, which will leave an ugly scar, but it’s not life threatening — to minimize the damage, he’ll probably have to sew it up. Dean double checks that he has enough alcohol for Cas to get through the process adequately. 

“Why did you leave?” Cas asks when Dean’s done cleaning the gash, tying a knot on the thread at the eye of the needle. To avoid answering (or, as he sees it, while waiting for elaboration), he begins working on stitching his cheek so the flesh isn’t left gaping. The flame in the palm of Cas’s hand flares momentarily when the needle first pierces through, and Dean instinctively leans away.

“Is it gonna do that a lot? D’rather not get my face singed off.”

“I can control it,” Cas says through gritted teeth, then, again: “Why did you leave?”

“I already told you in the letter,” Dean murmured, mainly concentrating on not poking the needle too deep. “The demons caught whiff of my trail, and I had to go. Saw black eyes on Jeff the day I left.”

Cas… doesn’t look satisfied with the answer. “They weren’t there for you, Dean.”

“Mm?”

“They were there for  _ me _ .”

Dean raises an eyebrow but continues working. Explains why the White Bandit was actually seen around the area near the end, and Dean still feels dumb for not putting the two together. 

“Did they even know who you were without the mask?” he hums. “I was the one with the Colt.”

“Dean.” The hand giving light to where Dean’s hand dutifully works lowers, and Dean is forced to look him in the eye. “They kidnapped me the day after you left. Caught me unaware because I was trying to piece together what happened to you. By the time I noticed, I was surrounded.”

The gash is half-sewn, thread trailing off to the needle in Dean’s hand, but Dean pays it no mind, too caught up in the slight nuances of Cas’s face: how his eyebrows push together and up, how the corners of his eyes crinkle… there’s pain there that’s not from pink and inflamed flesh below Dean’s fingers. 

He left. Dean  _ left _ , knowing full well what he was leaving in the camp’s midst, and a few simple words to some God above did nothing to save Cas. If he stayed, could he have prevented it? Would he have been able to stand in front of Cas and protect him, ensuring that not a hand was laid on him? Instead, Dean had fled three ways from Sunday, only thinking of protecting his own ass.

But this is the White Bandit he’s thinking about. He and Cas are the same person, and Dean still has to remind himself of the fact.  _ Just how distracted did he have to be to be finally caught after all this time? _

“What did they do?” he whispers, urging himself to continue working. Dean can’t bring himself to stare any longer, but Cas’s gaze burns through his own cheek. “That was a long time ago. I— I came as quickly as I could, but I’ve been across Kansas and  _ back _ .”

“Nothing that can’t be fixed,” Cas reassures him, like he isn’t the one who had to endure Alastair’s wrath. “The journey to the cave was slow, and while they had the iron shackles, any other abuse healed quickly.” At the mention of the shackles, Dean glances to the wrist that holds up his temporary light, seeing the burns that blister around him like a bracelet.

“They still harmed you.”

“Yes, but in case you haven’t noticed, as long as it isn’t iron, it’s fine.”

Dean scoffs. “ _ That doesn’t make it fine! _ ” he bites out incredulously, controlling his breathing so he can tie the knot at the last stitch and snip off the excess before he stabs Cas in the eye. “Sure, you’ll survive, but that doesn’t condone fuckin’ anything!” Sighing, he dabs at the wound with fresh water, cleaning it of any extra blood before finding clean gauze to seal it in bandages. “So they kicked you around… are there any other injuries I should be aware of?”

Cas shakes his head.

“What about when you got to Alastair?”

“I didn’t see him for a long time, maybe only for the first time about a week before you arrived,” Cas says. “Isolation and starvation was probably the easiest way for them to deal with me.” He grimaces. “Considering I’ve been alone for most of the past three decades, it really says something when you prefer the company of the most vile demons to another day in the darkness with no one but yourself.”

As stupid as the impulse is, Dean wants to run back to the cave himself, Colt in hand, and make them pay. This is definitely not the worst torture one could endure—Dean doesn’t want to imagine what plans they had once they got their hands on Dean too—but nonetheless, the neglect is unfathomable. Even the worst Dean’s been on the receiving end of throughout his life, he’s always had Sam there with him at the very least. He grits his teeth.

“Firebird or not, starvation ain’t a joke. How the hell do you survive shit like that?”

“Without sufficient nutrients, my body will tap into my phoenix lifeforce and drink from that instead.”

Dean vaguely remembers Gabriel’s description of phoenix origins and solar energy. “Ain’t that just as draining?”

“Yes, but supplies infinitely more potential. I’m not used to deriving my energy from my lifeforce, so I suffered minimally from the exchange.”

Finished attending to his face, Dean rummages for a soothing salve and some more bandages, pulling the hand with the embers in its palm towards himself. Cas flinches at the tiniest touch, so Dean applies the salve in a thick layer, gently coaxing from the top so that it spreads over every inch of damaged skin.

“Is it easy to transfer back?” he murmurs, eyes still trained on his task. 

Cas nods, humming his confirmation. “I’m still using some energy out of habit—to speed up the healing process—but it is significantly less now that I have access to food and water.”

Dean frowns, tapping idly at one of the fingers where the skin doesn’t burn. “Don’t do this if it’s draining you even more.”

“It is manageable. The bandaging, however, is not necessary.”

He grins up at him as he reaches for dressings. “Doesn’t hurt to speed things up, now, does it?”

It doesn’t take long to finish, attending to Cas’s other wrist in the same manner — because the fabric of his sleeves was able to protect him from the iron most of the time, the actual damage is kept to a minimum, as deep as the burns run. Almost unnoticeable, Cas’s hand begins to dim until it’s nothing more than a soft glow; when Dean investigates, he finds that Cas’s eyes are drooping, his head tilting forward until his chin is falling towards his chest.

“Hey,” Dean tells him softly. Gently, he pushes Cas’s hand down. “I’m all done, I don’t need this anymore.” The glow flickers weakly and finally dies out. Dean can still see Cas in front of him, but the campfire has grown weaker in its neglect.

“I’ve rested for quite some time earlier today,” Cas mumbles, mildly surprised. 

Dean shrugs. Twisting around, he reaches for his bedroll and passes it to Cas before cleaning up his med supplies. “There’s a lotta healing you gotta do; you can have my hen skins for the night.”

Cas is already halfway rolling out the blankets, tugging off his boots and any extra layers when he pauses and acknowledges Dean. “What about you?”

“I’ll be fine,” he reassures, somewhat to himself. “Gotta keep watch.”

Cas’s face scrunches in confusion. “We already set up the warding.”

Dean shrugs. “Well, someone’s gotta watch the fire. I’m not that tired, anyways.” Cas glares at him suspiciously but seems too tired to argue. When he finally crawls into the bedding, Dean leans forward to tend to the fire, tossing in smaller kindling to coax out the flame again before adding the larger branches Cas found earlier.

Rebuilding the fire from embers is relaxing and gives something for Dean to put his mind to, blowing fresh air to feed the flames and encourage the tinder to catch light. Gradually, its warmth grows, and the largest log finally crackles as the fire penetrates its very center. Sure that it’ll thrive, Dean reaches for his coffee pot and ambles away to the nearby creek (illuminated by the moonlight) to fill it up.

Waiting for a kettle to boil has reason behind its expression, so Dean tries to distract himself, bringing their dirty dishes to the creek to rinse them out and return before anything boils over. Leaving the dishes out to dry, he takes out his hand grinder and bag of Arbuckles, humming as he grinds the beans and brushes the grounds into the kettle. When the water finally boils, he sets it to the side to let it brew, leaning back to stare into the fire as he waits.

Mary and Gabriel should reach Cañon City in the next day or two, but until then, it’s a waiting game. Dean can sleep when Cas eventually wakes again—even if to pass the time—and other than that, he can tend to Impala. There’s still a lot about Cas he has to wrap his head around, so he mentally treads around the subject with care, wondering if Cas will spend most of the time asleep anyhow.

Pouring himself some dark coffee, he sips at it slowly, relishing how its warmth runs down his throat and heats him from within. He can feel the exhaustion settle heavy behind his eyes, but he’ll down the entire kettle if he has to.

Perhaps his batch is defective, because he’s halfway through his third helping when he realizes he’s been dozing, leaning back against the boulder near the campfire pit… or what’s left of it, as it’s waned down to nothing but a few glowing coals. Dean startled himself awake, having noticed that he’d fallen asleep, and he sits there blinking in the moonlight, staring at his cold coffee with disappointment.

“Dean,” a low voice grumbles and makes Dean jump, splashing some of his coffee onto the ground. The mound known as Cas is unmoving, but underneath impossibly messy bedhead, two eyes squint at him blearily.

“Go back to sleep, Cas.”

“You’re cold.”

He’s not wrong. Without the fire, the coolness of the desert night pierces Dean through all his layers, dipping lower and lower as the months fly by; it’s even worse at this altitude. He pulls his duster tighter around himself.

“It’s not too bad,” he lies.

“These are yours.” Cas shifts underneath the blankets.

“They’re yours for now.”

The way he pouts is… infuriatingly adorable. Grumpy with sleep. “There’s room.” To Dean’s horror, Cas shuffles over so that there  _ is  _ space beside him. Dean gulps. Cas rolls over onto his other shoulder to fall back asleep.

Dean’s torn. He’s chilled, and the heat both the hen skins as well as Cas has to offer is infinitely appealing, but… 

Then again, Cas is the one who made the offer in the first place. Dean is too tired to resist temptation, so he crawls over, downing the rest of his cold coffee and tugging off his boots as he goes. It’s with trepidation that he slides in, careful to touch the other as little as possible, but the embrace-like warmth the hen skins provide is enough to distract him. Dean faces away from him, on his side to conserve space, but Cas’s body is pressed against him, burning to the touch.

Cas shifts again, getting comfortable, and then there’s a familiar pressure falling over Dean… though it’s not cool anymore. It’s insulating. 

Dean tries to care momentarily, think about how for the first time, he can feel the soft breaths from the body against him, how their asses are pressed together and their legs tangled, making most of the little space they have. He tries to care, but he forgets about the coolness of the desert night, and with the little comfort the blankets provide him, he’s easy to lull sleep.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The jagged horizon outlined by the foothills to the east delay the sunrise, so Dean is roused later than he usually wakes. He lets himself drift in and out of consciousness, barely aware of the fact that he quite literally has nothing to do that day.

Gradually, as time finally becomes linear, he comes to be increasingly aware of the presence beside him. Dean’s currently laying on his back (as best as he can in the small space), pressed up against the edge of the bedroll. One of his arms is across his pillow while the other is resting on his chest, whereas his legs are… tangled with someone else’s, trying to spread out in the limited room they’re given. 

The man in question is curled into Dean’s side, pressed up against him to fit within the other limit of the bedroll with his head just brushing against Dean’s outstretched arm. One of his fists obscures his cheek, but Dean can feel the soft puffs of breath against his side, slow and even in slumber. His dark hair curls everywhere, further obscuring his face, and the healing scar at his hairline barely peeks out from underneath.

_ He’s traumatized _ , Dean thinks sluggishly, blinking down at Cas as he nuzzles into Dean’s shirt. Being left in solitary confinement is enough to do anyone in, but Cas has already been ostracized as the White Bandit, labelled a terrifying and inhuman force of nature. Dean can’t imagine how long he’s lived, and how unbearable the loneliness must be.

As he ponders, his outstretched arm bends, drifting closer to gently play with the soft bedhead between his fingers. Dean basks in the lazy unthinking of the morning, seeing how Cas’s eyelashes flutter, before he realizes what he’s doing and immediately freezes.

_ Comfort _ . Who for, he isn’t sure, but icy awareness floods his system, forcing even his breath to pause momentarily. He’s fooled around with guys before, satisfied to release some tension with an experienced hand, but that’s all there was to it. There was no holding each other, tender caresses while the other was sleeping… Dean hates himself for even bringing up the thought, utterly selfish considering what absence of genuine human touch Cas was subjected to, but that doesn’t stop his brain from rendering terrifyingly blank, limbs awake and ready for flight.

_ Hypocrite _ , he chides himself, desperately struggling for anything to ease his tension. Dean was so terrified of his savior being in danger that he rode hard across the entire state and threw himself into open jaws just to save him in return. Here Cas is, safe and in Dean’s arms, and he wants nothing more to bolt, cut dirt and hide away by the creek.

That, or maybe pull him even closer.

And perhaps it’s the intimacy that he fears.

But Dean Winchester doesn’t fear. He floats, as unattached as he can manage so his burden doesn’t weigh him into the ground. Physical pleasure is easy enough to attain even without ballast, but it’s impersonal. There’s a wall he hides behind, closing himself in while acting like everything’s a-okay, because while he flaunts a part of himself to throw off suspicion, there’s still another part deep inside that’s vulnerable.

Biting down the swell of negative emotion that rises like bile, he extracts himself, heaving his legs from their confines. The morning air is crisp against his bare skin as he stands, furthering himself from the warmth of the blankets and a slumbering Cas, tugging on his boots and going to start breakfast and coffee.

Anything to keep his mind busy. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Ankle-deep in the creek, Cas has his pants rolled up his shins and his sleeves rolled up his forearms; he’s bent over the running water, patiently scrubbing the bloodstains from his poncho.

Dean sits against the trunk of a tree, basking in its shade and absently watching Cas instead of the clearing before Cañon City for any travellers. He’s already brushed and rebrushed Impala, washed spare clothes that are lying out to dry, and rationed out their food to plan for the next few meals, just for something to do. Bored but not tired enough to sleep, he’s settled to watch Cas work the stubborn stain out of his poncho to pass the time.

Cas has been scrubbing at it for a while now. The fabric bunched up at his knees are soaking, and his white shirt is wet on his front from being splashed, which is nothing but a cool blessing to the blazing sun. His forearms visibly flex as he grips the bar of soap and scrubs with more vigor. It’s a wonder he hasn’t tired yet.

There's something disconcerting about seeing Cas—the man who lent him a helping hand when he’d hit rock bottom, the man he worked beside and ate beside and slept beside over the period they spent at the railroad front—in his full, down-to-earth glory, holding the White Bandit’s poncho in his hands, scrubbing it clean of his own blood. 

Meeting Cas, knowing Cas — that’s something Dean can believe. The White Bandit, however? He’s still ingrained as unreal in Dean’s subconscious, and the mere concept of being worthy of saving to this figure is absolutely baffling. Dean should never be worthy of saving.

“Why’dja do it?” he says, somewhat unintentionally. Cas pauses in his scrubbing to peer up at Dean, confusion plain upon his expression. “The fire,” he elaborates, “all the way back in Kansas.”

Cas sighs and goes back to his scrubbing. “Did we not already have this discussion?” Dean, stubborn as the stain Cas is patiently working at, remains silent. “You were injured, and, had I not taken you, would have been consumed by the flames. As a phoenix, I cannot be harmed by fire, and I had Bee under my protection.” Looking up again, he raises an eyebrow. “Unless, of course, you think of me as so heartless to have considered leaving you abandoned.”

“Some think you were the one who started the fire in the first place.” But no, Dean doesn’t believe that: there’s no way Cas could have been so careless. Thinking back to Cas’s talk of debts being paid, how he took him in in Ellsworth without hesitation, the simple act of saving someone’s life doesn’t seem so implausible… but it is remembering Cassy’s story that leaves him questioning.

“So you’re moral, I can believe that,” he continues, “but I still don’t understand why you took me under your wing when you’ve left the others you’ve saved to fend for themselves.”

Cas stops washing entirely, standing tall and peering at Dean like he still has to piece together the answer. Frowning, he stares down at the poncho draped over his hand, the blood well faded from his diligence.

“You were injured,” he decides at last, daring to lock in eye contact with Dean. 

“Nothin’ I couldn’t handle.”

His brows furrow even further. “I knew where your horse was.”

They’re warring over something, but neither seems to know what over. Really, Dean should be grateful, but the concept of being singled out like this is utterly perplexing. Unfathomable. 

“Is that it?” Dean asks weakly. There’s no reason to be disappointed; if it was only to give him back Impala, it was all worth it. His chest tightens in the panic of his own misunderstanding.

The worst part about it is that Cas looks just as troubled as he feels. 

“I don’t know,” Cas admits, turning the poncho over. “Should I have not?”

Dean shakes his head. “No, no, I’m grateful! Got my Baby back, and it was a hell of a lot easier to get to Santa Fe.” 

Cas must find another patch of dirt, because he’s bending over again, dunking the poncho into the running water before resuming his scrubbing. Another thought strikes Dean.

“Speaking of, where’s Bee?” He can see how Cas tenses minutely at the question, pausing to rinse of the suds on the wool. 

“I left him at a livery near the camp, paying enough that they’ll keep him there for a while,” he says at last, scrubbing again. “I was… concerned... that something like this was going to occur, and I wanted to leave him out of it,” he adds. “Just in case, I also left enough eagles and another note in one of his saddlebags in the event I couldn’t return in time.”

The gesture is… sweet. It’s thoughtful. Dean can’t help but feel an inkling of fondness grow for the man, wondering how anyone could have ever thought him to be a heartless monster.

“As soon as Mom catches up, we’ll head over across lots and save Bee,” he promises, voice teasing to lighten the mood but candid all the same. The genuine smile he receives in return is more than worth it.

“That will be more than appreciated.”

Letting the silence fall between them, Dean’s head—resting against the tree trunk—swivels to the side so that he can stare at Impala, grazing between them and their camp. She’s been his most trustworthy companion for the past decade or so, and Dean has already gone through considerable lengths just to keep her by his side. He wonders if Cas and Bee have a similar relationship, and he wonders if his absence has also contributed to the gut-wrenching loneliness he was subjected to while kidnapped.

“When I found you,” Cas says suddenly, making Dean’s attention snap back to him. Cas is staring at the poncho, standing straight with the dripping garment in his hands. “When I found you and carried you to safety… somehow, in some way, I think I was drawn to you.”

Not waiting for an answer, he turns around and wades back to shore, his back to Dean as he finds somewhere for the White Bandit’s poncho to dry.

  
  


* * *

  
  


As the day agonizingly progresses, Cas becomes increasingly restless.

It’s not something he notices right away, but when Cas first twitches both shoulders back, squirming like there’s an itch on his back, Dean becomes distinctly aware of the phenomenon. He’s always thought of both Cas and the White Bandit as a reserved kind of guy, so it feels odd when Cas stands abruptly, collecting more than enough firewood as Dean cooks an elaborate supper (mainly to pass the time). 

By the time he’s finished, the sun is almost completely set, with the dark orange hues of dusk painting the edge of the sky and throwing them into shadows. Cas sits with his back against the boulder Dean usually claims, eating his portion of the meal silently. He shifts now and again, the brush of clothing against dirt and rock barely audible underneath the constant crackle of the campfire.

When their plates are licked clean and set to the side (for Dean to wash later), Dean finally rounds on him, exasperated.

“Are you gonna tell me why there’s ants in your pants or not?”

Cas looks startled, but stubbornly schools his expression soon thereafter. “I’m fine.” Of course, as soon as he says that, his shoulders twitch violently, to which he screws up his face in disgruntlement. 

“Ahuh,” Dean asserts sarcastically. “ _ Totally fine _ .”

Pouting, Cas stares pointedly into the fire. His posture is tensed, as if he is carefully controlling it, and his hands are clasped tightly in his lap.

“My wings,” Cas relents. Dean raises his eyebrows, urging him to continue. Cas sighs. “My wings are a… manifestation. Of my phoenix… energy. Essence. The form they take is the reason why phoenixes are so often portrayed as birds.”

_ Right _ . Flame and wings. Firebird.

“Because I’ve been… tapping into that lifeforce for energy,” Cas resumes, “and with the reintroduction of food into my diet, it has become rather… disorganized — it’s not completely unlike having one’s feathers ruffled, to put it one way.” He bites his lip, shifting again. “I usually keep mine well-maintained, but with their neglect in addition to that lifeforce being so concerned with my healing, they have reached a state that is… rather uncomfortable.”

“Your wings are itchy,” Dean puts bluntly, because he’s not quite sure how else to react.

Cas nods. “It shouldn’t be long until they return to normal, but for now, like the pain that I feel from any wounds, I will have to endure the sensitivity.”

At least that explains Cas’s ridiculous healing rate: though it’s still leaving a scar, the reopened gash on his cheek is closing up nicely. Nonetheless, the mention of Cas’s wings piques Dean’s curiosity, as the only time he’s ever alluded to having them was in flight.

“Are they invisible?” he asks dumbly. Cas finally looks at him.

“They are constantly present, but as energy, an extension of my lifeform, just as arms and legs are of our physical bodies; I can, however, manifest them on occasion to a partially-corporeal form.”

It definitely feels like it could be personal, but Dean knows he’ll regret not trying.

“Can I see them?”

Cas is quiet for a few moments, peering at Dean like he’s sizing him up. He then turns to the campfire, staring into it for a while longer before sitting up and closing his eyes in concentration.

There’s a buzzing in the air—something that shouldn’t be perceptible—that is similar to what Dean feels around demons, but this is… different. This is warm, like rays of sunlight that warm your cool skin. In fact, it’s very much like the energy that flooded from the pocket watch right before Mary and Gabriel appeared.

Softly glowing birds’ wings gradually unfurl from behind Cas, seeming to be composed of light itself. Their outline is fuzzy, blurred between realities, and their radiance makes them ethereal against the dark sky. Further and further they spread, spanning out and stretching up to the heavens. When they’re fully displayed, wider than Dean is tall, they tremble momentarily before falling, resting at ease.

Heaving a deep sigh of relief, Cas reopens his eyes, and even though Dean’s about a yard away, he can see how they glow, simmering with the undercurrent of power that radiates throughout his being. 

Dean barely notices how his jaw has fallen, staring up at the manifestation of Cas’s very lifeforce before him. He can tell Cas is staring at him, awaiting some sort of reaction with trepidation, but Dean can’t help being struck dumb with awe.

“I—” he gapes, gaze flickering between both wings in disbelief. “Holy  _ shit _ , Cas.” The feathers flutter in an invisible breeze, swaying in the air. “Can I… Can I  _ touch  _ them?”

Cas looks over his shoulders, eyeing his own wings that rest behind him. Some of the feathers disappear into the ground like fluttering phantoms.

“I believe so,” he muses, lifting one of the wings without moving his hands, flexing it out to test its mobility. “The materialization should include an imitative physical form, much like how it is being visualized now.”

Without thinking about it, Dean reaches forward and brushes his fingers against shimmering feathers, eliciting a full-body shiver from Cas. They’re warm to the touch, almost like a fluid that embraces his hand, but he can still feel the soft outlines of feather underneath his fingertips. Pushing his hand further into the wing, Cas breathes a shuddering inhale.

Finally rounding on his companion—his hand still buried in feathers—Dean looks at Cas questioningly. “Does it… hurt?”

“No, it’s...” Cas bites out, his teeth gritted. He visibly forces himself to relax, his fists squeezed in his lap. “It’s alright.”

Dean cocks an eyebrow. “... Are you  _ sure? _ ”

A steady breath out. “Yes, I’m sure; I was simply… unprepared, for the sensation.”

Though Dean had crawled forward to touch the wing, he rocks back onto his heels. “... So it  _ does  _ hurt.”

“ _ No! _ No, that’s not it,” Cas shakes his head, expression troubled. “I just— They’re a sensitive organ, it took me by surprise.”

Dean stares at his hand, buried in the glowing feathers that thrum around his fingers, buzzing with life.  _ A manifestation of Cas’s lifeforce: _ of  _ course  _ they’re sensitive. He stuck his hand deep into Cas’s very soul and expected it to not be overwhelming. His hand retreats slightly so that only his fingertips brush the edge of their light.

“I can stop if you wanna,” he murmurs, head ducked and just avoiding Cas’s eyes.

Cas gives him a small smile, and Dean swears some of the feathers reach out to touch him. “I already told you it’s alright. If anything, your touch is calming.”

He grins wryly. “Kinda seemed like the opposite of  _ ‘calm’ _ .”

“I assure you I was only startled.”

Taking a deep breath, Dean presses forward again, bringing his other hand up to feel as well. Cas’s wing sways forward, as if encouraging the touch, but Cas himself shudders again, his eyes fluttering shut. Watching Cas’s face for any changes, Dean lets his fingertips brush against the feathers, only noting the occasional hitch in his breath. When his fingers reach a displaced feather, askew from the position the rest of its counterparts fall in, Dean eases it back into line, easing a satisfied hum from Cas.

“That better?” he mumbles, pausing in his ministrations. Cas nods, so Dean seeks out other misaligned feathers.

The repetitive motion is actually rather soothing to Dean as well: it’s like the energy is drawn to him, reaching back as he graces his touch over it. He begins at the further edges of the wings, crawling forward to realign the most obviously uncomfortable feathers. Hopefully this’ll stop him from twitching, Dean thinks idly, concentrating on actually holding the feather in his hand rather than letting it slip through, as it has done on occasion — that being said, when Cas’s very lifeform overlaps with his own flesh, he is so stunned by the sensation, so overwhelmed by the occurrence itself, that he barely notices the gasps from Cas under his own.

Nearing what would be the bone of the wing, Cas shifts, distracting Dean.

“Dean—”

Attention drifting for just long enough, Dean’s hand reaches out too far and overlaps with the thicker portion of the wing, the branch rather than the leaves. His heart leaps in his chest at the indescribable unity that they’re both overcome, caught in an undercurrent of intense…  _ sensation _ . Whatever it is, it leaves his heart hammering and the air knocked from his chest, dizzy with the unintentional action of whatever Dean had accidentally done. In his shock, he had almost missed the whimper that had been elicited by the contact.

He finds himself knocked back, flat on his ass and propped up on his arms, staring up at where Cas had stood up in a panic with his wings tensed out behind him. Cas’s eyes are wide and staring back at Dean with incredulity. 

“I—  _ Wha—?” _ Dean stammers, floundering for comprehension.

Stumbling backwards, Cas wings catch him before he falls, and somehow he doesn’t break eye contact as he increases the distance between them. All at once, there’s a flutter of wings, and he’s gone.

Blinking at where he took off, Dean pants, still winded from the sensation he was subjected to. It wasn’t…  _ bad, _ per se, but it was… intense. Dean feels guilty for almost craving to reach out and seek that sensation again.

Dean’s ears are sharp, which is why he can hear the splashing and fluttering of wings all the way by the creek. The fact that Cas only fled to the furthest edge of their camp makes him relieved, but he doubts he’ll see him by the campfire anytime soon.

Removing his boots and any excess clothing and crawling into the bedroll, he presses himself against the edge of its fabric limits, just in case the extra space will be needed.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Cas is still asleep in the hen skins when Dean sees the travellers in the distance, inching towards Cañon City across the desert. 

Smothering most of the campfire with ash, Dean runs to Impala and saddles her up, not even bothering to search for his riding gloves before swinging himself up onto her and chirking her to a canter. She’s guided with ease, grateful to be using her legs again, flying down from where their hideout is.

Impala is remarkably faster than Ellen’s spare horse and the rent horse Gabriel’s using, so Dean catches up in no time, easily garnering their attention before he’s close enough to holler. They’ve turned their steeds towards him, compromising to meet him in the middle.

“Dean!” Mary shouts, right as Dean is vaulting himself off of Impala.

“ _ Mom _ ,” he beams, watching as she dismounts and turns to crush him in a bear hug. She kisses the top of his head fiercely, her hands over both his ears to secure him in her grasp.

“You’re not injured,” she breathes. 

“Nope!” he swells. “Not a scratch.”

She pushes him back so she can look him in the eye, and her brow furrows. “How’d you manage that?”

Dean shrugs. “Hell if I know. Think they wanted us to think we could escape, but Cas flies like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

“Where is he?” Gabriel interrupts, more stressed (even if the tension is rather well concealed) than when Dean saw him last. He remains atop his pony, clenching the reins in one hand.

“Cas is still asleep, back at the camp,” he says, jerking his head up to their hideout. “Poor bastard’s got a lotta healin’ to be done.”

Gabriel is almost vibrating with impatience, so Dean gives his Ma one last squeeze before hopping back on Impala’s saddle, leading the way back to the camp. Wary of the other horses’ stamina, Dean keeps Impala’s speed in check, constantly glancing back to see how his mother and Gabriel are faring.

By the time he approaches the camp, the first to round the corner, he finds Cas—hair at every angle and clothing sufficiently rumpled—pacing nervously. He straightens when he hears Dean approaching, rounding to start storming towards him.

“ _ Dean! _ ” he grumbles, voice still rough with sleep. “I woke up and thought… you…”

Dean doesn’t have to look back to know that Gabriel’s horse trots from behind him, revealing himself as the horse plods to stand beside Impala.

“... took off,” Cas finishes weakly. 

He looks stunned, expression warring between fear and amazement. Gabriel simply looks… saddened.

“And leave all my saddlebags here?” Dean chirps brightly, because he’s an asshole.

“Hey Cassie,” Gabriel says, melancholy permeating his smile. “It’s good’ta see you again.”

Cas just stands and stares, mouth hanging open slightly. Dean grows restless under the tension, and he can hear his mother finally approach the camp with her horse at a walk, but he can’t take his eyes off the two brothers.

Without tearing his gaze from his brother, Gabriel swings off his horse, landing to the ground with a thump and holding the reins against the animal. Cas follows the motion with his own eyes, and when Gabe’s on the ground, he begins to stumble forward, projecting himself onto his brother with the help of his wings (which Dean hears as a whoosh through the air). 

“You were  _ dead _ ,” Cas states, muffled by Gabriel’s shirt. Gabriel laughs disbelievingly, squeezing his sibling back.

“Not quite,” he murmurs, “but it’s been too long.”

Suddenly, Cas stops, gripping Gabriel by the shoulders and pushing him away.

“You’re…” He scans Gabriel desperately, searching for something. “You’re  _ human _ .”

“Yeah,” Gabriel says, and there’s a slightly wobble to his tone. “Yeah, I am.”

They both look despairing: Cas more in disbelief, and Gabriel with more acceptance.

“It was Eusolis,” Gabriel explains. “Saved my life, but… at a cost.”

Dean stiffens at the mention of the pocket watch. Either way, it got him Cas back, and that’s all that really matters.

“C’mon, Dean,” Mary murmurs softly from Dean’s other side, pulling his attention away from the brothers’ reunion. “Help me with the horses.” Nodding absently, he dismounts, reaching for the reins of Gabriel’s horse to lead both him and Impala to where Mary’s steed grazes.

Based on the fact that it’s mostly Gabriel speaking, Dean guesses that he’s explaining everything to Cas, smoothing out any preconceptions that he may have developed over the decades. He only realizes he’s staring when Mary nudges his side.

“You’re very… close… with the White Bandit,” she observes lightly, heaving the saddle off of Gabriel’s horse.

Dean frowns. “Turns out I’ve been an idiot the entire time and he was actually someone I knew. Met Cas on a cattle drive to Ellsworth where he saved me from going to hell on a bender, and later I bumped into him again: we worked on the railroad together for a while.”

“Oh?”

“Now that I know they’re the same person, we’ve also had time to get, erm… acquainted.” He clears his throat when he regrets the awkward phrasing of his words.

“I see,” Mary says, way too smugly.

Dean groans. “It’s not what you’re thinking, whatever the hell it is. Don’t tell me: I don’t wanna know.”

He can see her raise her eyebrows from a glance. “I’m not judging—”

“There’s no judgin’ to be done,” he counters gruffly. “Cas is just… just a friend,” he finishes with a softer tone, taking another peek at the brothers. Cas is knelt by the campfire, listening as Gabriel continues to talk as he tends to the flames.

“Well, I’ll take your word for it,” Mary sighs, shoving the saddlebags to the side. “We should probably head off soon, so let’s get some grub before we pack you up.”

Dean works on a stew as they all sit slightly further from the fire, unwilling to absorb the extra heat over whatever the sun shines on them. Gabriel and Mary rest, and Cas is busy ogling at his brother, so Dean takes it upon himself to also describe their side of events, recounting how he found Cas and what Cas eventually told him about his predicament. Predictably, they’re all incredulous at his lack of preparation going into his mission, but it’s nothing compared to the infuriated disappointment he receives when he owns up what happened to the pocket watch.

“You  _ what? _ ” Gabriel roars, eyes wide.

“Dean, are you _ insane? _ ” his mother hisses. “ _ Explains why I couldn’t feel its presence. _ ”

Even Cas speaks up: “Wait… you gave _Alastair?_ _The_ Eusolis?”

Dean shrugs. “I mean, it was either that or the peacemaker, and I had already promised not to let that outta my sight.”

“You brought the  _ Colt  _ with you?” Gabriel and Mary cry out, at the same time Cas mutters: “You really  _ are  _ that stupid, huh.”

“I don’t know what you wanted from me,” Dean grumbles. “I was getting out of there with Cas  _ alive _ , whatever it took.”

They stop chiding him after that, having gained a semblance of understanding of where Dean’s coming from. At a glance, Cas looks like he wants to protest, but at least has the tact not to do so in front of a brother who's been waiting to see him for three decades.

“You  _ do  _ realize how beef-headed that was, Dean,” Mary says at last, breaking the heavy silence. Dean rolls his eyes.

“I got it the first time, thanks.”

“So do you have a plan for Alastair?”

Dean stops stirring for a moment to swivel around and look at her. He notices that the brothers are staring at her too.

“A plan…?” Dean asks.

She nods. “You were the one who gave him Eusolis. We need to stop him before he can  _ really  _ do any damage.”

“We’ve been tracking Alastair for the better part of a century,” Gabriel points out. “How do you think we’ll catch him now, ace-high with Eusolis?”

“There’s more of us now,” Mary says. “Not only that, but we know more about what they want.” She stares at Dean, tired like the concerned mother he never got to have — only be. “And they’re never going to stop: if what you said was true, then you and Castiel will only be able to stop running when Alastair’s buzzard food.”

“And how do you expect us to kill that abomination?”

“The peacemaker,” Dean says suddenly. “I’ve beefed demons before with it… I’ll just have to get in close enough, and by hook or crook, I’ll get him between the eyes.”

Gabriel laughs disheartenedly. “You two really crawled from his den by the skin of your teeth, and now you’re all rearin’ to do it all over again.”

“What choice do we have?” Cas ponders. “We’ve been running for too long, and you… can’t run for much longer.”

The silence rings heavy between them, suddenly faced with the fact that even though he’s got his brother back, Cas is truly alone now. He’ll outlive everyone in a heartbeat, watch them grow old and die as he buries their cold and unmoving bodies.

“Food’s ready,” Dean croaks, moving to serve everyone their portions.

He’ll kill him. He’ll put an end to this all, ensure that Alastair can’t do any more harm.

He’ll do it, even if it’s the last thing he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehe... fun reminder that this chapter also had [a scene illustrated](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27525355)...


	18. Convocation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh lol looks like I forgot there's a touch of vague nsfw in this chapter, but you'll definitely see it coming, and it's only like a sentence long so you can just skip to the break immediately after if it's not your thing.

All four travellers set out after noon, restocking supplies in Cañon City before heading east.

There was minimal conflict on who Cas would ride with: Dean wasn’t dense enough to notice the lingering trepidation remaining from the night before, and even now he tries to skirt around the issue, but in the end, Impala had the most room in addition to the most stamina, so Cas rides behind Dean for the trip. His hands loosely grip at Dean’s sides, clinging marginally tighter when they ride a little harder, and Dean can barely sense the ease at which Impala moves, giving away how Cas uses his wings to take on weight from Impala’s back.

“Even with the four of us, especially now that I’m human,” Gabriel points out as they’re looking for a camp, just ahead of the Colorado-Kansas border, “how do you expect us to get through to Alastair? Getting through his defences is hard enough, how are we supposed to get a bullet in his head?”

Dean shrugs. “I’ll think of somethin’. I still got plenty of time, bringing you back to the ranch.”

“We can round up reinforcements—” Mary begins to say before being interrupted.

“ _ No way, _ ” Dean says, with Cas’s simpler “ _ No _ ” underneath. “I’m not dragging anyone else into my mess,” Dean continues. “This is my problem to deal with, and I’m not letting anyone else get hurt because of my mistakes.”

“You’re human now, Gabriel,” Cas adds, as if it’s obvious that he’s coming along. “You have no idea what your limits are, and we can’t risk you making a fatal miscalculation.”

Mary and Gabriel stare at each other for a moment, whatever mental communication going on between them indecipherable to both Dean and Cas. They have matching sympathetic smirks, glancing at the two riders on Impala in disbelief.

“I’m sorry, but do you really believe that you’re going to let us stay behind while you have all the fun?” Gabe simpers. “I thought you knew us better than that.”

“And do you really think John and Bobby are just going to let you go without a fight?” Mary retaliates. “We all met as Hunters, for Christ’s sake: they’ll take offence if you don’t invite them along.”

To avoid Dean’ and Cas’s petty protests, Mary leads her steed off the trail towards a creek that runs a little distance away from where they are now. Dean sighs and tugs Impala’s reins to the side, letting her trot to catch up in her position as the lead horse.

Camping with all the shoot is very different to what Dean’s grown used to over the past few months. After leaving the ranch, Dean was drifting, consumed by the threatening loneliness hanging above his head. At the railroad head, Dean had more company, and he even had Cas at that point, but it was still all work, and there was a distance that Dean oh so carefully put between himself and the others. Even with just Cas and himself, there was a tension palpable in the air, simmering and dangerous, something neither of them understood how to approach.

Now, however, Mary sits at the campfire, humming softly as she attempts to make bear signs. Cas and Gabe sit to the side, Gabriel quite obviously tormenting his brother simply based on how miserable Cas looks. When Cas catches Dean looking, his expression so blatantly pleads for help that Dean can’t help but burst into laughter.

This atmosphere is something Dean hasn’t had in a very long time, and he’s almost scared to embrace it. Not everyone is here yet, but Dean’s surrounded by people he didn’t even know he could have before this mess started. 

And it’s not like it can last either, he’s not unrealistic. The whole issue with Alastair… he’ll sacrifice himself, if he has to. Better him than anyone else.

Brushing off the last of the dirt from Impala’s coat, he lingers by her side, his hand resting against her shoulder. Dean leans forward so his forehead is propped up against her body, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. He can only meditate for so long before Impala steps away from him, so he goes to scratch behind her ears and leaves to join the others.

Back in Cañon City, Dean made sure to find a decent bedroll for Cas. Now, however, when they set up their bedding after their meal, Dean finds it difficult to tear his gaze away from the extra bedroll, only a few feet from his own. When he does end up slipping inside to get some shut eye, he can’t help but notice how much emptier his bedroll feels without a warm body next to him. Dean pulls the blankets tighter around himself to keep out the night chill. He’s restless, tossing and turning in search of just enough comfort for rest. 

It’s only right before he nods off that he realizes just how used to sleeping under wings he’s come to be.

  
  


* * *

  
  


With the other horses getting used to the more arduous trips, they make it to Dodge City in a few days just by sticking to the Santa Fe trail. Bee keeps on nuzzling Cas at every opportunity, almost knocking him off his feet a few times; the soft and secret smile he returns is something Dean can only observe for a few moments at a time before he’s overwhelmed by its warmth.

Dean’s walking out of the livery beside Cas and Bee to where Impala and everyone else are waiting, carrying his extra bedroll for him, when he gets the brief warning of a “ _ Dean! _ ” before he’s tackled by someone. Tensing and immediately turning to defend himself, it takes Dean a few seconds to recognize the laughter, to recognize the smell and brown hair of the gangly being known as his brother.

“ _ Sam? _ ” he says incredulously, spinning around to throw the man off his back. Sam finds his footing and grips Dean’s shoulders to keep him from turning, pulling him in for a bear hug as soon as Dean’s stopped moving. He returns it disbelievingly, patting him on the back before letting a shorter redhead join the head. “Charlie?  _ Damn _ , it’s good to see you two again.”

As soon as he steps back, Sam punches Dean in the gut, who almost topples over Charlie. Wheezing, he clutches at his abdomen.

“ _ What was that for? _ ” he winces, squinting up at his brother.

“For not saying goodbye,” he says simply. Dean mentally curses himself.

“ _ Shit _ , I’m sorry Sammy: after what happened back at the ranch, I couldn’t risk-”

“We looked everywhere for you, Dean,” Charlie says, and Dean squeezes his eyes shut. “Up and down Kansas just tryna track down your ass.”

“A lot has happened,” he admits. He finds it in himself to finally stand up straight. “We’re on our way back to the ranch now, so I can tell you everything on the way.”

Sam, however, isn’t paying attention to what Dean is saying. Instead, he’s staring at Cas, who has been waiting patiently with Bee for Dean. Cas is staring back at Dean, looking a little lost.

He nods to the others. “Sam and Charlie?” Cas asks.

Grin spreading across his face, Dean nods, gesturing between them in an introductory manner. “My brother Samantha and lil’ sis Charlie.” Both glare at him before giving Cas polite smiles. 

“Who’s this?” Sam asks, curiosity seeping through his voice.

“That’s Cas—”

“It’s Castiel,” Cas corrects, stepping forward to accept the handshakes both Sam and Charlie are offering. Dean rolls his eyes.

“I…  _ wow _ , I only met Cas after I last saw you guys in Ellsworth,” he muses,  _ really  _ gazing at Cas and pondering on how in-depthly familiar he’s become with the man. “Technically speaking. After that, we met again when we worked on the Santa Fe railroad.”

“I  _ told  _ you that was a lead!” Charlie cries, jabbing Sam in the side. Sam rubs the spot sheepishly.

“It’s nice to meet you, Castiel: I hope my brother hasn’t been too much of a pain in your ass,” Sam says, to which Charlie rudely murmurs: “Which would be a surprise to all of us.” Dean—sharp as ever—shoves her giggling, mischievous figure out of the way, hoping desperately that Cas didn’t hear anything. Sam—by some miracle—barely keeps a straight face. 

“Word was that you left,” Sam continues, addressing Dean. 

He nods. “I did. I…” he trails off, glancing to Cas. Cas stares back at him, head tilted slightly but otherwise trusting. Dean sighs. “You should probably also know that he’s better known as the White Bandit.”

Sam and Charlie stare at him, unblinking and unmoving. Charlie is the first one to crack a smile, laughing unsurely.

“Stop pulling our leg,” she says, glancing between the utterly serious expressions of Dean and Cas. Her laughter falters.

“I don’t think he is,” Sam murmurs. He’s staring at Bee, probably making the connection between him and the  _ “phantom horse” _ mentioned in the legend.

“You…” she gapes and then turns to Cas. “He’s not kidding? You’re  _ really  _ the White Bandit?”

Cas shrugs. “It’s the name I’ve been given. Dean, are you  _ sure  _ this is completely necessary—?”

“They’ll need to know to understand the whole story,” Dean reasons. “It’s been a few months: they’ll be askin’ for everything.”

“Every little detail,” Charlie confirms rather cheerfully. “We’ve heard a lot about you.”

Cas looks a little shell-shocked. “You have?”

Before Dean can interrupt, Charlie nods. “Mhm. Dean was searchin’ for every little scrap of your legend after that prairie fire — we got to hear all about it on the drive up to Ellsworth.” Dean glares at her, but doesn’t say anything lest he put himself in a compromising position.

“And we owe you for that,” Sam adds. “To our understanding, you’ve saved his ass more times than he deserves.”

“As idiotic as he is, he has also saved me from a… precarious situation,” Cas says. “Though he  _ does  _ seem to have a penchant for danger.”

“Are you gonna hog the pretty one all for yourself, or are you gonna introduce us?”

They all turn to where Gabriel is standing, leaning against a wooden fence with his arms crossed. Mary, who’s holding onto the horses, only looks amused. Charlie inches closer to Dean, but Gabriel is evidently not addressing her.

“I apologize for my brother Gabriel’s behaviour, Sam,” Cas sighs. “His humor leaves much to be desired.” Luckily for all of them, Sam merely looks unimpressed, even if he’s masking a flicker of amusement as well. Nonetheless, they all begin to make their way towards the other two.

“So if that’s Gabriel,” Sam says, nodding towards the shorter man, “then who’s the last member of our party?”

Mary is looking between Sam and Dean questioningly, a smile playing on her lips. An uncontrollable happiness fills Dean to the brim.

“Sammy… say hi to Mom.”

Both are still in their shock, staring at each other in disbelief. Sam has only seen a photograph of Mary, having last been her presence as a babe. The warped recognition is evident in his expression, but the softness in Mary’s eases it, and he allows himself to fall into her arms when she offers them.

“You’ve grown so much, Sammy,” she murmurs, rubbing his back. Sam doesn’t know what to do but nod. 

Seeing them both wrapped in each other’s arms, tentative but tender, Dean can’t help but feel like fragments of his life are finally piecing together.

  
  


* * *

  
  


While the initial reunion was touching, Sam becomes detached from the situation, becoming quieter and quieter as he and Charlie listen to the other four recount their past few months. Every once in a while, Mary will come near him, putting a hand on his shoulder or drifting her horse nearer to his, but Sam will only give her a small smile before shying away. Dean bites his lip when he sees his brother like this and he frets about what it means, but there’s not much he can do about it.

“She’s a stranger to me,” Sam admits when Dean pesters him about it. They’re alone, having wandered off to gather water for the camp. “I’m sorry, Dean, but I never knew her like you or Dad did. I heard about her, sure, but I can’t find anything familiar in her.”

Something desperate claws its way up Dean’s throat, which he tries to gulp back down. “But she’s  _ Mom _ .”

“No, Dean:  _ you  _ were my mom. Just like Bobby was our father.”

Dean bristles defensively. “ _ Dad— _ ”

“Dad supported the family, I know, I’ve heard it millions of times,” Sam shrugs, “but you know it’s not the same. Bobby was always there for us. You were always there for me.” The rest of his statement is left unsaid, but it rings clear between the two of them.

Steeling his expression, Dean uncaps another canteen and fills it in the stream. “So… what, then? Do you hate her for this?”

“For using Eusolis?” Sam pauses for a moment, staring at the vegetation in front of them as he thinks. “I’m not sure. Part of me does, because we can’t get any of that life back, but I’m not sure what I would have been thinking if I was in her position.” And then, quieter: “You’ve seen how Dad changed because of her… sometimes I wonder what kind of a man he’d be if she never disappeared.”

Dean won’t admit it, but he’s sulking. He pointedly doesn’t say anything else, accepting that Sam hasn’t said anything incorrect, but hating that he’s right. Sam sighs behind him, but doesn’t make a move to pat him on the shoulder like Mary would have done.

“Maybe what I’m trying to say is that she hasn’t done anything for us,” he says. “Bobby, Charlie, Jo, everyone else… they’ve made a place for themselves in our family. Blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb. I don’t think I can see her as family until she can show us that she is.”

“You want her to prove herself,” Dean puts blandly. His knuckles whiten with his grip on the canteen.

“How else am I supposed to believe?”

“For me, Sammy,  _ for me _ .”

“I’ve tried doing that for almost three decades, Dean, and look how that turned out.”

Charlie, as it turns out, is fascinated with phoenix lore, and is constantly asking either Gabriel or Cas for more stories. She also takes easily to Mary, eager for a mother figure that she hasn’t had in a long time; her own openness is gradual, but it’s more than what Sam and Mary have.

This, however, means that Sam ends up spending a lot more time with the rest of the guys, and, by proxy, Gabriel. It’s a delight for Gabriel, of course, but horrifying for everyone else.

“I’ll ride your horse, if you know what I’m saying,” is one of his less brilliant lines. Dean—who’s attending to their food—makes gagging noises. Cas has his eyes closed in prayer. Sam simply rolls his eyes.

Gabriel continues to sprinkle his conversations with unnecessary comments towards Sam (and a few memorable occasions to Dean, which Dean takes in stride and replies with an equally untoward comment, while Sam looks exasperated and Cas rather stormy), and Sam continues to ignore him and presses on in the discussion. This cycle persists for long enough that Dean is genuinely concerned for his sanity for the remainder of the trip back to the ranch, so he ends up nursing his firewater flask a little more than he should.

The buzz settles in his chest, spreading across him like a blanket. It’s easy to smile, watching how everyone leans against each other, laughing at something someone said. When the sun sets after their meal, everyone’s expressions are lit by the glow of the campfire.

More than once, Dean finds his gaze straying to Cas. The man in question doesn’t add too much to the conversation, but the corners of his lips are quirked upwards, and the edges of his eyes are crinkled. For the most part, his attention remains on his brother, still in awe that a man he thought was dead for almost three decades is cracking up and chattering excitedly right in front of him. Dean feels the same affection every time he looks at his mother.

Even so, he’ll return to Cas. Everyone’s glowing, but it feels like Cas is glowing brighter, casting their company into shadows, and Dean can’t help but be drawn to his brilliance. Maybe it’s that phoenix energy of his. After all, every once in a while, Dean will feel the brush of the softest breeze on his shoulder, and he knows better now, knows that it’s just the faintest trace of a wing.

Once, while Dean is staring, Cas turns, facing him with flushed cheeks and his eyes alight, catching him in the act. His head tilts to the side, brow furrowing slightly. Dean’s too tipsy to care, so he gives him his winning grin and lifts his flask in a toast before bringing it to his lips, never once taking his eyes away from Cas’s as he drinks. Cas stares at his throat, how his bread jerker bobs with every gulp, and then lets his eyes flicker back to Dean’s when he’s finished drinking. Dean can’t read the expression that’s playing across his features now, but Cas turns away to take a quick drink of his own, returning to the conversation between the others.

Dean’s not exactly disappointed, because he can still stare all he wants, enveloped by a heavy feeling that settles upon his chest.

Plus, the occasional skittering side-glance Cas spares him is more than worth it.

  
  


* * *

  
  


As per usual, Dean is one of the first to wake up in the morning.

All of the others are wrapped up in their hen skins, oblivious to the dawn light that bathes their figures. They stayed up quite late last night, and the emotional toll of the reunions are probably still weighing on their consciousnesses, so letting them all sleep in a little longer is not too difficult of a decision. 

Dean rarely sleeps in. There have been occasions, of course, but it’s not unusual that he’s the only one that stirs in their camp, blearily shaking out and tugging on his boots. Ash is all that remains of the campfire, and Dean blinks at it for a few moments before deciding that maybe he’ll wash his face before starting up the fire again. Grabbing his kettle and canteen, he starts his trek down to the nearby creek.

Yawning, he revels in the crisp morning air, which will only get dustier as the day wears on. The nice thing about Kansas is that it’s still northeast enough that it’s not quite as dry as it can be further down the Cimarron cutoff, but that doesn’t stop the trail from being brutal — namely, at La Jornada, which they’ll be trying to power through today. They’ll have to stock up and ration water for the journey, and especially with the more inexperienced horses, it’ll be a bit more difficult. Stretching out the kinks in his neck as he walks, Dean yawns again.

The creek runs in a short valley, masked by greenery that seeks out its moisture. Dean can hear running water long before he has to push his way through the shrubbery, but he’s so distracted by his half-asleep thoughts that he doesn’t notice the splashing until he’s breached the other side of the growth.

Though the entire body of water extends across its carved valley, the particular location they have been using in particular is closed off like a spring, where the vegetative banks close in at mouths both upstream and downstream of the basin; the effect serves as somewhat of a private room. 

Which is why it shouldn’t be surprising that Dean sees a figure standing in the middle of the pool, waterline just reaching the small of his back.

Dean is frozen, stopped like the coyote he’ll occasionally pass before it bolts away. Clean clothes are neatly laid out on some boulders by the bank, highlighted by the morning sun that peeks through leafy shadows. Dean’s gaze sweeps back up to where Cas is standing, completely oblivious to Dean’s presence. 

With his back to his company, Dean can see how the muscles in Cas’s shoulders ripple as he runs a bar of soap over his chest and down his torso. The water laps at the curve in his spine, sometimes dipping low enough to just barely reveal the curve of his ass, unobscured by the fluid. Dean’s then distracted by the way his arms flex as he washes each limb, coaxing soap suds to cling to the hair that barely dusts over his forearms.

In one splash, he dips down and submerges himself underwater, rinsing himself off. Dean only realizes he’s been holding his breath when he takes a stuttered inhale. He wants to tear away like a startled animal, but he has an empty kettle and an empty canteen in his hands, and a pressing but guilty urge to keep staring.

Before he can move, however, Cas surfaces, wiping water from his face with a free hand. He emerged with his side to Dean, but as he’s slicking his hair back and blowing water away from his mouth, he catches sight of Dean out of the corner of his eye. Pausing and letting his arms fall to his sides, he turns to fully face him.

If Dean was stunned before, it’s nothing like how his breath catches in his chest now. He’s seen Cas shirtless before, having tended to him when he flew into the barn, but it feels different, being drawn to how his chest heaves to reclaim the oxygen that wasn’t present underwater. Even from where he stands, he can see the healing gash that he stitched up himself on Cas’s side, further blending his picture of Cas and the White Bandit together — it’s funny, how even when he’s in his most vulnerable state, he still reeks of power. Drifting down further, Dean can see how the waterline hovers just underneath his abdomen, the v of his hip bones trailing lower and lower, underwater and towards…

_ Say something, dammit. _

“ _ Heya _ , Cas!” he says, forcing himself to move forward. “You’re up early.”

Cas blinks back at him, gaze locked on Dean as he makes his way towards the bank. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t react either. Dean toes off his boots as he gets closer, rolling up his pant legs and his sleeves before grabbing the kettle and canteen and wading into the water. Now that he’s much closer, he chances a glance up, seeing how Cas stares back only a few feet away. He can also see how droplets of water clinging to stray curls of hair drip down onto his face, carving paths down his cheek, down his collarbone, down the indents of his pecs, down…

“Just getting some water for the coffee,” he explains, bending down to rinse the kettle. Old grounds swirl into the water, tumbling downstream to where Cas stands. Watching them float away brings his line of sight into dangerous territory, so Dean snaps his attention back to the kettle. “We got a long day ahead.”

Cas finally nods before sinking down, submerging himself so that the water now comes up to his shoulders. “Which is why I took the opportunity to bathe,” he says. His voice holds more gravel than usual, rough with disuse. The sound appeals to Dean more than he’d like to admit. Pointedly ignoring the warmth that floods his system despite how cool the water is against his skin, he bites his lip and keeps his eyes trained on his work at hand.

“Smart choice,” he murmurs, letting the kettle float against his legs as he fills his canteen. When he glances up again, Cas is staring blankly into the distance, preoccupied with scrubbing soap into his hair. Breathing out a sigh of relief, Dean finishes filling the both containers. By the time he’s making his way back to shore, Cas is submerged underwater again, rubbing the suds from his hair.

Leaving the canteen and the kettle on the shore, Dean pauses, straightening. He could take the easy way out and just leave, letting Cas finish with his bathing rituals, but… he hasn’t washed his face yet. Dean can admit that he’s definitely not asleep anymore, but his cheeks burn, and the cool water is enticing. Gulping, he turns back around and wades in until the water comes up to his shins. 

Cas’s head is above the water when Dean bends down, splashing water up into his face and into his hair. Looking up, running his fingers back through his spiked hair and blinking away the droplets that cling to his eyelashes, he notices that Cas is peering back at him. They stay there for what definitely feels longer than a quick glance, staring back at each other from where they’re poised; Dean blames his own actions on not daring to look anywhere else.

All of a sudden, Cas stands, his posture immaculate and the water just hugging his hips. Dean, whose hands are half-submerged in the water, only tilts his head to follow Cas, barely cognizant that the water does very little in concealing much at all. Then, he’s walking towards Dean, striding through the water as if he’s met with no resistance, and Dean finds himself straightening, ready to meet Cas eye to eye.

He pauses mere inches away, his stare stripping Dean down to his barest elements. Dean stares back resolutely, hardly daring to breathe. When a hand reaches for his, he lets it follow the pull, lets his fingers curl around the bar of soap that’s placed in his palm. 

“Use this,” Cas says. His hand stays wrapped around Dean’s wrist, which Dean is vividly aware of the fact that it hovers just in front of Cas’s abdomen. If he let go of the soap, uncurled his fingers, then just  _ maybe… _

Dean nods slowly.

For a moment, just for a moment, Cas’s gaze slips downwards, and Dean  _ burns _ .

And then Cas is pulling away, dropping Dean’s wrist and wading back to the shore. Dean stands with the bar of soap in his hands, watching as the other man retreats, water dripping off his figure as he completely emerges. Cas continues to where his clothes are laid out, not bothering to look back where Dean’s left dumbstruck. 

Dean turns his back to him, using the soap—the same soap that ran across bare skin Dean couldn’t tear his eyes from—to scrub at his face before splashing up cold water to rinse himself off. 

He’s pent up, that’s all. It’s been a long, long time since he’s had a fuck, and he’s craving touch.  _ That’s it _ , he tries to convince himself, drowning in the fantasies of black stubble and blue eyes and strong hands that have attacked his subconscious ever since the railroad. 

One more glance back, and Cas is already half-dressed, making his way back through the vegetation with his shirt over his shoulder.

When he’s sure he’s alone, Dean takes a deep breath out and lets his hand dip under the waistband of his pants, letting his head fall back in a gasp as his fingers greet the sensitive hardness that’s been more than attentive to the events that had unfolded only moments before.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The trek up Sand Creek to the Singer Ranch is a walk in the park to La Jornada, so they reach home in the early afternoon.

Bobby reacts to seeing Mary much in the same way Ellen did. Dean watches from afar with some amusement, but ends up taking Ellen’s spare horse to the barn to unload for his mother. By the time he’s made sure the horses are settled, he meets them out by the corrals, leaning against the fence as they speak quietly between themselves.

Before Dean can get a word out, Bobby spots him and straightens, pulling him into a tight hug. Startled but not surprised, Dean carefully wraps his arms around him, processing the action before slumping into the embrace and squeezing back. 

“Don’t care how self-sacrificial you’re feelin’,” Bobby grumbles. “Don’t do that again.”

Dean nods. Bobby continues.

“We’re your family; we stick to your side whether you want it or not.”

Finally released, Dean steps back, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s been a while — lots happened,” he relents. He scans the area, spotting some of the cowboys—who must have returned from Ellsworth and stayed—working on some finishing touches on a brand new lodging where the old one was burnt down. “Where’s Dad?” He can almost feel how his mother tenses beside him.

“Took the wagon for an errand run a few days back,” Bobby says, eyeing Mary as he speaks. “Should be about time he’s returned.” Of course he’d understand the tension: he was the one who had to pick up all the pieces. Mary had probably briefed Bobby on what had happened, because he looks at her with more concern than disappointment.

“You’ve rebuilt the place,” Dean observes, trying to shift the conversation. Bobby looks around to where the cowhands are working with a soft smile.

“They came back and all insisted on helping rebuild the place,” he says. “I told ‘em they weren’t bound here, they could go lookin’ for another ranch to wrangle, but they wouldn’t take no for an answer.” Loud laughing erupts from the Mexicans, who are currently working on tiling the roof. “I try to pay them what I can, but they insist it’s nothing. _ Para la casa _ .” 

“Looks like you’ve adopted them too,” Dean teases, nudging Bobby. And then, to his mother: “We’ll have to introduce you to everyone.”

“Once you’re settled in,” Bobby says. He steps away and gestures to the cabin, urging for Mary to follow. “You look exhausted.”

“Yes, thank you, Bobby,” she smiles. Glancing at Dean, he can see the gratitude that’s written all over her expression.

“Welcome home, Mom,” he murmurs, his heart swelling at the significance of the event.

“It’s been a long time,” she says. Her gaze scans the ranch before her, seeking familiarity in what is left standing all these years later. Turning back to him for a moment, she reaches out to squeeze his arm once before following Bobby back to the cabin.

Dean is following behind her, juggling some of her saddlebags in addition to his, when he’s stopped on the porch to a voice calling his name. At the recognition of Benny’s voice, Dean drops all of his luggage to whirl around and greet his friend.

“ _ Benny! _ ” he says as he’s pulled into another hug. “It’s been a while.”

“Too long, brother,” Benny replies. They give each other a few firm pats on the back before parting, looking the other up and down to see how they’ve changed.

“Sorry about the way I left you,” Dean says at last. He crosses his arms and leans against the porch railing. “Damn unfair. I’m surprised you stayed.”

Benny shrugs. “Uncle Bobby was plenty acceptin’ to welcome me with open arms. A bed to sleep in and warm food to eat was more than enough.” He glances towards the door of the cabin, where Bobby and Mary had entered only a minute before. “Who’s the crowd?”

Dean laughs. “If you’d believe it, one is Cas—the one that looked after my ass after the brothel in Ellsworth—and the other is his brother… oh, right, and you’d also know Cas as the White Bandit…”

While Dean is expecting more of a reaction, Benny just whistles. “You’ve been busy while you were gone; I take it the two of ya have kissed and made up?”

“Well,” Dean says, “the last person—other than Sam and Charlie, who I assume you’ve seen before—is my mother.”

Benny stares into the window of the cabin, seeing something that the curtains block out from Dean’s point of view.

“You’re a strange man, Dean Winchester,” he laughs, shaking his head. “No idea how you did it, but because it’s you, I have no doubt that you found a way.”

“I’ll tell you when I bring everything in: we have to talk to everyone at some point, but they won’t get the whole story.” Crouching to pick up his luggage, he’s grateful when Benny lends a hand and picks up some of Mary’s belongings.

Benny is holding the porch door open for him, but as he’s squeezing himself past his companion, something catches his eye when he glances to the side.

In front of the cowhand dwellings, Cas stands motionless, staring back at Dean. Sam and Charlie must have shown him and Gabriel to a room earlier, but he’s alone now, expression impossible to discern from such a distance.

Turning back to Benny, he offers him a smile and steps inside the cabin.

  
  


* * *

  
  


John returns that evening, just as the sun is disappearing for the day.

Over the course of the afternoon, Dean had occupied himself introducing his mother and Cas (and Gabriel, but he mainly stuck to Sam’s side) to the rest of cowhands. Mary is eager to meet everyone, easily taking part in their banter and glad to hear their stories; Cas, on the other hand, stays rather silent, lingering close to Dean’s side everywhere they go.

Bobby and Rufus are preparing a cookout when someone first spots the wagon coming in. Benny, Pay-ati, and Henrikson all go out to help him with the load of whatever he went out for, but Dean stays back and watches him arrive from a distance, sick with nerves at what his reaction may be when he sees who’s at Dean’s side.

It feels like forever for John to approach, riding easily on his stallion. The porch is well lit, however, so it’s not so difficult for him to spot Dean. His reaction is completely indiscernible under the shadows of his hat, but he’s still, only letting the motions of his steed move him.

“Mary,” he breathes out, dropping to the ground and tying the horse to the porch. He must have seen Dean and Cas already from the corner of his eye, but he pays them no attention, too in awe of his once-dead wife before him.

“John,” she replies. Her voice is carefully blank, and John falters slightly when she doesn’t make a move towards him. 

“I… It’s you, isn’t it?” he says absently, glancing at Dean. “Bobby knows…?”

Mary nods. “Everyone’s double and triple checked.”

He removes his hat, running a hand through what little hair he has left and laughs in disbelief. “Mary it’s… it’s really  _ you _ . You… How’d you do it?” Mary glances over to where Dean and Cas are, almost pleading for help right as John engulfs her in a tight embrace. Reluctantly, she returns the gesture, uncertainty leading her to stare out in front of herself as John buries himself in her presence.

“We’ll need to talk,” Dean says. Only then does John look up, regarding him with a warm and relieved gaze before pulling him into a hug too.

“I was so  _ worried  _ about you, Dean.”

Startled and also unsure of himself, Dean nods absently, staring back at his mother as he wraps his arms around his father.

“I… It’s been a rough few months.” 

Releasing Dean, John returns to gaping at his wife, who has her arms crossed but an expression full of soft longing. 

Turning to Cas, Dean instructs him: “Go see if you can round up Sam, Gabe, and maybe even Bobby. They’ll probably want to be there.” He jerks his head towards the living area of the cabin, and Cas nods.

As Dean is opening the door, Cas having disappeared around the house, he pauses when he hears his parents talking quietly to each other, and he catches the tail end of their conversation.

“—glad to see me?”

Mary sighs. “John, you know I want to, but… I’ve been topside for about a month now. I’ve heard what’s happened since I’ve been gone.”

Dean flinches at the notion. When he’d caught her up, he had always tried to be diplomatic in explaining his father’s situation, but Sam had pulled no punches. The effect was evident during their travels: despite Dean’s automatic response to be the one to cook, Mary would wave him away, saying that she wanted to get her hands on real food again. It wasn’t unusual for her to come by his side before he drifted off either, stroking his hair and humming the tunes she remembered from all those years ago. Sometimes, Dean will still turn and catch her staring, torn between sorrow at never having been there for his childhood and pride at what he has become nevertheless; every time, Dean turns away and pretends to have not seen it, distraught with thoughts of what could’ve been but never were.

“I tried,” John pleads, cradling Mary’s cheek with a hand. “I did what I could to support them.”

Mary shakes her head but leans into his touch all the same. “By leaving them alone? By turning to whiskey? You should have just forgotten about me.”

“I would have done anything to bring you back. Hell—eventually—it worked.”

“How many years has it been, John?  _ How many? _ ”

Dean clears his throat, and they immediately step apart, John’s hand falling back down to his side.

“We should probably get inside,” he says, unwilling to acknowledge that he’d been listening in to their conversation. “We have a lot to explain before dinner.” He looks away to step inside, but he can hear them trail after him.

John is silent throughout the explanation. He sits alone in the armchair, staring out at nothing in particular with a carefully blank expression as he digests everything that Dean and the others tell him. Dean, Mary, and Cas all stand, leaning against something with their arms crossed; everyone else is settled on one of the sofas, sitting forward to listen intently with the exception of Gabriel.

The storytelling doesn’t take nearly as long as Dean had expected it to: his overview of his time at the railroad is brief, but he allows his father the background of how he met Cas. At the description of what went down in Abilene as well as the explanation of Eusolis and phoenix lore, Gabriel occasionally fills in for Dean (though, to make matters more tense, Mary doesn’t say a word — John stares at her throughout this part of the story). Gabriel also explains the misunderstanding between them as Hunters and Phoenix, and John, who had clung to those beliefs for the past three decades, gradually slumps in his position. By the time Dean reaches the point in which he saves Cas from Alastair and his cronies, John has his face buried in his hands.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he mutters. His voice is aged and weary, like the weight of his actions are beginning to settle onto his conscience. “That was my fault.”

Anyone who was looking at Dean immediately whips their attention around to John.

“What was your fault?” Dean says sharply, wary of his implications. John held the ambitions of seeking revenge against Mary’s supposed killers as his sole will to live for so many decades, and with not understanding the entire picture can have dire consequences.

John stares at his son, resolutely ignoring Mary’s burning gaze. “During the raid, I managed to capture a demon, which I kept… underneath the barn. It’s where we kept a lot of our hunting equipment, back in the day.” In the brief lull, Bobby mutters “oh,  _ balls _ ” before John continues. “One of Alastair’s bunch. So… I made a deal.”

There’s a dead silence in the room. The air is filled with something that is slowly suffocating Dean, and the churning boil of anger begins to bubble up, pulsing from behind his eyes. He clenches his fists to keep himself still.

“The White Bandit for Mary,” John says. “One location for another.”

Dean presses his blunt fingernails into the palm of his hand, doing his damndest to focus on the sting to center himself.

“It was fair to me at the time: I was looking for Mary, and in exchange, I would give Alastair her murderer…  _ or so I believed _ ,” John hastily tacks on when he realizes Castiel is standing a few feet away from him. “As for the Bandit’s location, well… he was hard to pinpoint, at first, until I realized I knew where to look.”

The statement is left unsaid, but in catching the few side-eyes at Dean, he has a feeling he understands. Somewhat nauseated, he bites his lip hard to further distract himself and doesn’t stray his gaze from his father.

John sighs and lets his gaze flicker once to Mary. “Thing is, they couldn’t find her. Alastair’s a powerful being, and demons follow their contracts, but they searched heaven and hell to no avail. Figures, now that we know you were in the damn watch the entire time.” Then, addressing Dean: “I made sure to write in that they wouldn’t get you tangled up in this mess, but I should’ve known better, that they would exploit a damn loophole.”

“They lured him there,” Cas says out of nowhere, surprising everyone. At a glance, his expression is stony, almost impossible to read. Dean’s head spins at the implication that it’s obvious that Dean would go after Cas… hell, he’ll do it all over again if he has to, but there’s something else about the insinuation that bothers him.

“Yes,” John confirms, but doesn’t spare the phoenix a glance; he must still harbour some underlying and unreasonable grudge. “I honestly didn’t think you would fall for it.” And even though Dean hates him for what he’s done, the accusation and disappointment comes to him like a hard blow. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Sam staring pointedly at Dean.

“What the  _ Devil  _ were you thinking, Winchester?” Bobby exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air. “Are you sure you’re still holding onto your soul, with a deal like that? Not to mention you got jack shit out of that bullshit deal of yours.”

John waves him down tiredly. “Once I heard that they couldn’t find Mary, I did extract one thing of use.” Though most of the room would gladly have their hands around John’s neck, they spare him the last shine in the spotlight. “Based on what you’ve told me, I’m guessing that you’re all planning on going after Alastair yourselves.”

Because he’s the one being primarily addressed, Dean nods.

“Good,” he says, “because I know where Alastair is.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Alastair, as they had all assumed, does not permanently reside in the cave from which Dean had rescued Cas. Instead, he has what has vaguely been described as a lair in the Colorado mountains.

Dean broaches the topic to the rest of the cowhands over their meal. He only gives them the necessary information, a brief description of what their goal is, but is amazed when everyone seems to be on board. Further discussion of the plan is easily laid out around the fire immediately after, deciding that Garth and the Mexicans would stay behind to guard and tend to the ranch, while the rest would leave in a few day’s time after necessary preparations. 

Despite the (varied) eagerness of the other cowboys to take on an infestation of demons, the family cabin after the meal is nothing but a headache to Dean. From one room, he can hear the loud voices of Bobby and Jo, the latter close to tears in her fiery determination to go along, whereas Bobby is set on making her stay; she’ll win, in the end — she always does, with something this important. From another room, there’s complete silence, but Dean doesn’t miss how John closes the door softly behind him, searching for a blanket to set up camp on one of the sofas.

Dean is exhausted from the emotional strain the environment is admittedly imposing upon him, so he finds himself wandering outside in the dark. 

As tired as he is, there’s also a buildup of energy that bristles inside of him, and he doesn’t know how to shake it loose. His first impulse is to ride Impala, to feel the breeze on his cheeks as she gallops rhythmically across the prairie — he shakes off the urge, knowing that she needs to rest up as much as possible before the long trek to Alastair’s lair, and he doesn’t trust himself in how hard he’ll push her. Dean also considers practicing his shooting, but not only is the lighting subpar, it would also be inconsiderate to everyone on the ranch trying to get some shut eye. An eloquently excused “ _ release of tension _ ” is also something Dean lingers on.

Nevertheless, he ends up finding himself by the creek, throwing stones into the water. He’s too wound up to try skipping anything, so he resorts to winding back and hurling rocks at the current to hear their somewhat-satisfying  _ plop _ s. The repeated action keeps him entertained for far longer than it should.

“You’re upset.”

Pausing after picking up his next victim, Dean glances over his shoulder. Cas is sitting on a boulder a few yards away, watching him. Dean has no idea how long he’s been there.

“No I’m not,” he retorts. Turning, he throws the stone.  _ Plop _ . 

“... Angry?”

“Thanks for the astute observation, genius.”  _ Plip-plop _ .

“Dean.”

_ Plunk _ . “I’m  _ tired _ , okay? I’m just real fuckin’ tired.” At the outburst, he crouches down, sitting close to the stream so he can watch the swirling eddies by his feet. “Everything’s been changing so fast that I can’t even tell what I’m thinkin’ anymore; I’m tired of everything I touch hurting the people around me.”

“Dean.” His voice is gentler than he’s heard in a while, and certainly not towards him; in some way, it actually soothes Dean. “You put too much blame on yourself.”

He scoffs. “It’s what I deserve.” Grabbing a handful of pebbles, he tosses them like a rainfall into the stream.

“This is not your fault—”

“ _ Don’t _ . Just… don’t.”

Cas spares him the silence he’d asked for but not truly wanted — this feels too suffocating. At least the rustling sounds of the creek bring him some sense of peace. 

“Do you know what you’re gonna do after?” Dean asks idly, playing with his fingers. What  _ does  _ a phoenix do, with so much time on their hands? What life is there to live when all you can do is watch it grow and die around you?

“Do you?”

Dean doesn’t answer. Cas seems to understand nevertheless.

“ _ Dean _ ,” he says sharply. “You  _ will  _ live.”

He shrugs. “What makes you think I will?”

“Because I’m going to make sure of it.”

This time, he doesn’t know how to respond. All of those times he’s been saved by the White Bandit—by  _ Cas _ —felt different than whatever proclamation this is, but perhaps they’re not so dissimilar… and Dean doesn’t want to believe whatever that could mean.

“It’s my problem to fix,” Dean states, “and I’m not gonna let you sacrifice yourself on my watch.”

“You forget that I have more—”

“More  _ what? _ ” Dean finally bursts, jumping to his feet to whirl around and face his companion. “More power? And more power means  _ you’re  _ the one that has to die? Because I’m not gonna let that happen, Cas. This world  _ needs  _ your power, it needs your  _ protection _ , and I—”

He falters.

_ I can’t live without you. _

There’s no reason those words should be there, there’s no reason they almost fell from his mouth, yet there they sit, dizzying with no escape from their meaning. Dean’s pulse is fluttering and his stance wavers, but his mind has halted to a dead stop. 

Cas is staring at him, waiting for him to continue, and for some reason, that’s what kick starts Dean’s brain.

So he does the only thing he knows how to do when faced with intense emotion: he deflects.

“You really should start thinking about what you’re going to do after,” he says coldly, pulling himself together, “because you’re alone now. You may have gotten your brother back, but he’s got a due date now, just like the rest of us.” Turning around, he bends down to grab another stone and toss it into the creek.

_ Plip _ .

_ Plip. _

_ Plip-plunk _ .

By the time he dares to check, Cas is already gone.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The cowhand’s bunk is quieter than Dean had thought it was going to be.

In the common area, he bumps into Cas.

“Do you need something?” Cas asks, impassive.

“I was lookin’ for Jessie.”

Cas narrows his eyes. “For what purpose?”

Already on edge, Dean bristles. “None of your damn beeswax.” He can see Cas clench his jaw.

“I believe he retired early,” he replies. Dean somehow doesn’t believe him.

He crosses his arms. “Okay, then. Benny.”

For some reason, Cas is being especially stubborn. “You said you were tired.”

“Wasn’t planning on doin’ any work.”

Just for a millisecond, Cas’s eyes widen. Then, he turns on a heel, finally leaving Dean be.

Instead of persisting, Dean ends up leaving, all of his motivation sapped from the small interference.  _ Guess his right hand will have to do for now. _

By the time he creeps back into the main cabin—small miracles—everything is quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everyone say _thank you cam_ for that one terrible line of gabe's


	19. Eclipse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **!!!** [Here's the censored version of this chapter.](https://docs.google.com/document/d/12vYMNpVYlmgvBM-yce1eG8IWcM_sk2Zh0JQN-jLZ4uY/edit?usp=sharing) **!!!**  
>  _(Much longer, goes until the break. Only sexual content is censored.)_
> 
> Also going to throw out a general warning that Alastair is... not so great of a person, haha. He really pushes some limits, so just a heads up.

They depart from the ranch a few days later.

The journey itself takes about a week and a half, taking into account the wagon they’re towing along and the mountain travel that will take part closer to their destination. Rufus had loudly claimed that he was too old to go on dangerous hunting trips like this; Bobby told Dean that he wouldn’t miss an event like this for a good bottle of old tom, and sure enough, Rufus became the one in charge of the supply wagon. Jo had also won her argument, and she spends most of her time riding beside Charlie, caught up in their own world.

Dean, for the most part, keeps to himself during the trip. He lets Impala ride out in front of the pack, keeping to the Cimarron River’s side even as they branch away from the Santa Fe trail. There are a few times someone would come to ride by his side, attempting to coax him into some sort of conversation, but with his one-word answers at most, they’d soon give up and stay back. In fact, Dean grows to enjoy Pay-ati’s quiet company the most, keeping his paintbrush pony a respectful distance away.

An early night is called when they reach one of the northernmost bends of the Cimarron River, wanting to stay near the water for the night before they head north into Colorado to meet the Purgatoire River. Because this gives everyone the chance to socialize, however, Dean can only pretend to polish his Peacemaker so many times before someone comes over to bother him.

Turns out it’s Sam. He sits beside Dean without saying a word, staring out at their family by the campfire before them. 

“Gabe finally get under your skin?” Dean asks lightly, because he’s in a good mood. Sam looks at him with surprise before registering the off-color tone, his expression growing peeved as he shoves his brother to the side. The motion lets a small laugh fall from Dean’s lips, which, in turn, seems to please Sam.

“Just thought it’d be quieter over here, with you brooding in your own little corner.” Dean scowls at that, but Sam’s grin remains, if tired.

Both take to watching everyone else for a while, sitting hunched over their legs as the fire grows in intensity with the setting sun. Mary and Bobby busy themselves with the meal while Rufus sits to the side, blissfully lacking complaint due to the harmonica between his lips. Gabriel—who Dean notices Sam is paying the most attention to—is now speaking with Benny, waving his arms and laughing loudly as Cas and Victor listen in to their banter. Pay-ati and John look out and away from the camp, as if expecting intruders at any time.

“Charlie’s doing well, though,” Sam says, and Dean’s gaze snaps to where she and Jo are sitting in their own little corner. They also chat amongst themselves and watch the fire, and when Jo presses into Charlie’s side, leaning against her to point something out, Charlie’s gaze is drawn to the girl’s face like she shines brighter than the fire in front of them.

“Surprised her cheeks don’t match her hair,” Dean murmurs, and Sam’s elbow in his side is chiding enough.

“She’s as good at repressing that kind of stuff as you are.”

Dean immediately tenses. “ _ What’s that supposed to mean? _ ”

“Oh,  _ come  _ on, Dean: I’m not blind. Wasn’t born yesterday, either.” When Dean’s concerned confusion doesn’t ease away, he sighs. “Whatever, I won’t press you when we have more important matters at hand.” Though a masochistic part inside him wants to know exactly what Sam means, Dean is grateful for the subject change.

“... So you  _ did  _ come to talk,” he starts cautiously when Sam hesitates. Sam looks at him with resignation, and Dean turns away to avoid acknowledging the silent question.

“You’ve been distant,” Sam says instead, “which means you’re repressing something.” Scoffing, Dean reaches over for his booze flask to take a hearty swig, belatedly realizing just how telling the action is. “Look: I know something probably happened between you and Cas because Gabe’s mentioned how off he’s been too—which,  _ fine _ , don’t tell me—but a lot of shit has happened and I know you’re weighing it all on yourself.”

He shrugs. “It’s—”

“And don’t tell me  _ it’s fine _ , because it’s very clearly  _ not _ .”

Dean glares at him before he slumps, reverting back to aimlessly fiddling with the Colt. “Either way, it’ll be all over soon, don’t worry. I just… I just need to clean up my mess, and then everything can return back to normal.”

Sam is in sheer disbelief. “ _ Your— _ Dean,” he gapes, laughing in spite of himself. “This is in  _ no way _ your  _ ‘mess’ _ — hell, we don’t  _ have  _ a ‘normal’ anymore, not with everything that’s happened.”

“It’ll be fine,” Dean murmurs, almost to himself. He continues to avoid his brother’s eye by staring at the designs on the Peacemaker and tracing them with a finger.

There’s empty laughing again, and out of the corner of his eye, he can see Sam shaking his head.

“ _ You _ ,” Sam punctuates, “are  _ so _ .  _ Selfish _ .” Dean takes another drink. “I know it’s your  _ thing _ , but you are  _ not  _ some sacrificial virgin we’re sending off to appease Alastair.” Wording aside, it’s exactly what Cas said.

“I don’t know what gave you the impression that I’m a virgin—”

“ _ Dean _ .”

Dean shuts up. 

Sam continues. “Are you really so wrapped up in your self-pity that you can’t even imagine what our lives would be like without you?” Dean opens his mouth to answer, but Sam waves him off. “No, I know what you’re going to say, and you have to  _ stop _ . If I had to choose between going back in time to before this shitshow began and living in whatever convoluted future you have in mind, I’d pick you over Mom any day.” 

Something sinks into the pit of Dean’s stomach and his throat closes.

“You have to be rational, Sam,” Dean finally says. His voice is scratchier than he’d like it to be. “I’m the one that’s beefin’ that evil son of a bitch, and I barely know how I’m gonna get close enough to put a bullet between his eyes.”

When Sam speaks again, his tone is gentle. “And  _ you _ have to remember that we’re gonna be there with you — you’re not fighting this alone.” Dean’s face twists, constantly aware of how opposed he is to anyone following him in, but his brother plows on anyhow. “All you’re doing is believing that the worst case scenario is going to be the inevitable outcome. Plus, you’ve got the White Bandit at your side, and most of us here are experienced hunters.”

Dean avoids voicing his doubts on how much Cas will actually have his back, considering his demeanor as of late.

“Stop wallowing in pity,” Sam tells him. “If you want to be all pessimistic, then drive that energy towards making some sort of a plan. I know your style is more of the run in guns blazin’, thinking-on-your-feet plan, but give yourself options.”

The thing is, Dean  _ has  _ been thinking of plans — he’s had nothing better to do, with all the time in his own head. Nevertheless, he nods, knowing that saying anything will only spur the argument, and he’s tired.

“Do you think Mom and Dad will ever reconcile?” Sam brings out of the blue. He’s back to watching the crowd, seeing how John’s gaze lingers to where Mary works with the food. Sammy’s a damn smart kid, and he’s undoubtedly picked up on how much Dean is counting on them to be one little happy family again. 

Due to the unsureness of the answer on the tip of his tongue, Dean keeps his mouth shut.

“Do  _ you  _ hate Dad?” Sam asks, and it hurts like a punch. 

“I can see why he did it,” Dean says, but his mouth feels dry, thinking about every time he’d reach out to his father like to a solid wall, only concerned with its own matters. He thinks about how it was his father who condemned Cas to all those weeks of torture under Alastair’s hand, and he has to bring his hand to his face to convertly bite a finger to redirect the swell of emotion.

“But do you hate him for it?”

Dean shrugs, because he truly doesn’t know. The rush of anger and disappointment and frustration that drags him under like a rip current is easy enough to identify, but concepts like hate and love… those are abstract. He doesn’t know what really and truly constitutes as something so encompassing as  _ love  _ and  _ hate _ . 

“I thought bringing her back would make it better,” Dean admits, mumbled so softly that Sam probably has to strain to hear. “Instead, I made everything worse.”

“That’s not entirely true, Dean. You tried to fix something that had grown apart and adapted to life without the other: even if it felt like there was something missing, you can’t force the pieces back together. Because they had been separated for so long, they don’t quite fit into those empty places anymore.”

They both watch as Mary pauses in her chore, her attention drifting to where John is standing guard. It doesn’t take long for John to notice, accidentally catching her eye in the process. For a few seconds, they stay very still, not moving a muscle, until they simultaneously relax into soft smiles, weary yet tender.

“You should talk with Cas,” Sam murmurs, and Dean automatically tenses at the mention.

“Why?” he grumbles, trying to pull off a sense of indifference.

“Because you’ll need all the teamwork you can get,” he puts simply. “I don’t know what petty squabble you’re up to ears with, but you both need to stop giving each other the cold shoulder before you have each other’s lives in your hands.”

And Dean sulks, because he’s right. At Gabriel’s side, Cas is sat in that stiffly professional way of his, duster coat brighter with its reflection of the campfire. There’s a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips—something Dean can recognize from their distance by the curve of his eyes—as he watches his brother rant, and its brilliance sinks so deeply into Dean’s chest that he aches with its presence.

“It’s like you don’t want yourself to be happy,” Sam murmurs, snapping Dean from his daze. When he gives his brother a questioning look, Sam merely shakes his head, standing up and brushing off his trousers to rejoin the others.

  
  


* * *

  
  


As they make their way up to and down Purgatoire River, Dean finds himself allowing others to drift near him again, letting them coax him into light conversation. They tread lightly, keeping more to mindless banter, but Dean more than happily discusses battle tactics with Bobby and Pay-ati. He finds himself teasing Charlie again about her little infatuation with Jo, but she somehow seems to brush it off with more ease, taking it in stride. By the time they reach Trinidad Lake, Dean stops visibly isolating himself as much.

Even John makes some sort of an effort to reconcile: he treads on thin ice with just about everyone he talks to, so he spends most of his time helping out wherever an extra hand is needed. Sometimes that job includes rustling up wood, sometimes it involves tending to the horses, and sometimes he sticks to the wagon, blessing holy water and notating sigils. While any interaction with Mary remains stilted, Dean lets himself gravitate towards his father, strictly discussing lore behind Alastair and their past experiences regarding demons. There are brief periods in which Dean considers letting his father have a look at the Colt, and he can see his Dad’s curious eyes flicker to his coat pockets, but continues to decide against the notion; if anyone, John would be the one to figure out how the revolver ticks, or to be able to create duplicate bullets, but Dean already has enough ammo for the raid into Alastair’s lair and deems the thought currently unnecessary.

The one exception to this development is Cas.

(It  _ always  _ has to be Cas, doesn’t it).

It’s not like Dean has anything against Cas: his sharp tongue back at the ranch was only the result of a deflection. No, if anything,  _ Cas  _ is staying out of his way for that reason, irked by a collection of small factors that are composed into a being named Dean. There are a few times—the times Cas notices Dean by his side and steps away, the times he catches Cas staring at him before his eyes dart away—Dean wonders if Cas ever regrets saving him. He knows that opinion has been rebuked numerous times, but Dean still can’t bring himself to believe it, and especially not now.

And thus, a frustrating cycle is maintained between the two stubborn men: Dean continues to avoid Cas because of his self-deprecation and his need to be petty over being ignored, while Cas takes that avoidance as a sign to continue to distance himself.

Be that as it may, there is only so much distance that can be put between two people travelling on the same journey. While the rides themselves are fairly isolated due to narrowing mountain paths and the general preferred hierarchy of the horses, it’s at night when they set up camp that gives rise to all the moments Dean holds on to and replays in his head over and over again as he watches the stars.

Usually, they manifest in the accidental brushing of hands with the passing of a meal or a horse brush; perhaps it’s the otherwise lack of contact that Dean zeroes into the sensation, the brief but burning warmth of skin against his own, causing him to rein in a flinch as his breath catches. Once, they find themselves the only ones at the nearby creek, filling up water for the meal and for coffee, and a certain vivid memory plays before Dean’s eyes as Cas rolls up his sleeves to wade into the water — the air is so thick that Dean feels like he’s suffocating.

Of course, Dean tries to excuse his itching libido as nothing more than not recently satisfied: after the confrontation with Cas, Dean became so consumed with preparations that he never did find the time to approach Jessie or Benny. Even during the trip, he’s played with the thought of bringing Benny to the side for a quick romp in the bushes, but the idea never comes to fruition — it’s like there are eyes on him as he looks at Benny, making him pause and reconsider where his motivations lie.

But Dean is lying to himself when he waves off the tension between himself and the phoenix as mere sexual interest. Sure, he’ll entertain himself on longer rides by thinking about sweating, flexing arms lifting a wooden beam, the tanned expanse of a back and rear bared to him and half-submerged in water, or maybe even the bright glowing of eyes with light the same color of birdlike wings, but there’s something else that doesn’t quite fit the picture that he still can’t quite understand.

He notices it in his own discomfort. At the beginning of the trip—to keep with the façade of whatever avoiding was going on—Dean was careful to lay out his hen skins away from Cas’s. As time passed by, however, Dean found himself unintentionally drifting closer to where the other ended up, magnetized together like they were on the railroad front. Each night grows colder, and Dean is all too aware of how much emptier his bedroll is, how he can curl up and still have room to spare. It’s when they’re already past Trinidad Lake, trekking towards Purgatoire Peak, that Dean realizes he’s set up beside Cas one night, and a part of himself uncoils with relief. That night, the moon shines so brightly that its brilliance drowns out some of the finer stars, but Dean doesn’t stargaze that night, because the warm pressure in which he grew familiar with on the railroad front has returned like an embrace, and mindless slumber is a luxury he’d be a fool to ignore with the impending events that loom over their future.

It’s instances like those that have Dean perplexed, running away from what they could possibly mean yet craving the sense of agony they bear. He’s not…  _ afraid…  _ of the actual feelings themselves; there’s a masochistic tendency to indulge himself whenever he’s alone with his thoughts, but otherwise it’s just something else he can learn how to repress.

Perhaps it’s what they  _ suggest _ .

Because—after all—you can’t  _ fear  _ losing something you never had…  _ can you? _

And every time the thought pops into his head, Dean squeezes his eyes shut and blinks it away, shaking his head to dislodge it from where it’s settled. He’s already faced with enough concerns regarding the demons, and he doesn’t need something else weighing him down.

In the end, it turns out the concept had lingered in his conscious for longer than it should have, because when they finally reach the area a few miles from where Alastair’s lair is estimated to be ( _ “Follow Purgatoire Creek until you find Purgatoire Peak, there you shall find the destination you seek.” _ ), Dean comes to the realization that he still hasn’t talked to Cas, as his brother had suggested he do almost a week ago now. He agrees on the fact that being on friendly terms with the phoenix will definitely aid their endeavor, but now, with the time that has passed and the thoughts that have accumulated in his head, he hesitates to act on the notion.

The better meat and the better booze is brought out that night, and while there’s subdued festivity, there’s an undercurrent of understanding that they may not all make it out of tomorrow’s raid. Benny drinks more and laughs louder. Charlie and Jo are attached at the hip, and when they sit down for the meal, Jo is sitting in Charlie’s lap; her arms are slung protectively around her waist and her chin hooked over Jo’s shoulder, while Jo is free to wave her arms around as she speaks. The more experienced hunters seem less worried about their impending doom, but they watch their younger counterparts with a tinged sadness, concerned about how they will fare but knowing better than to convince them to stand down.

Even so, Dean can’t figure out how to approach Cas. He ends up preoccupying himself with Benny and Sam and the girls, retelling long and perhaps slightly exaggerated stories of his time at the railroad or overall past including each and every one of them. Sometimes he’ll pause for a breath, or absently look for the man he mentions, but more than once, Dean catches himself catching Cas’s eye. Sometimes, he’s looking back, avidly listening to what Dean’s saying, and it feels like he’s back at the railroad front all over again.

Before he knows it, people start to call it a night, running through brief bedtime routines before crawling into their hen skins. Dean pep talks himself into playing out how he’ll try to catch Cas awake when they’re both on the verge of sleep, maybe say enough to fix their little misunderstanding, when Cas gets up and leaves towards the nearby spring — Dean only notices because of how much attention he is giving to the other, and momentarily panics before realizing the situation can be used to his advantage. 

Without staring at the fire for a few minutes, the moonlight is just enough to guide him along his way. Each snap of a twig or crunch of vegetation is too loud to his ears, forcing him to subconsciously walk on the balls of his feet. The creek is not too far away from the camp (and luckily, in the other direction from where they think Alastair’s lair hides) so it only takes a few minutes for him to reach it by foot.

Cas, as he had suspected, is sitting on a boulder next to the running water, deep in a brown study. Dean—still unsure of how to proceed—stands there and absently stares at his figure for a while, content with only looking.

His fingers touch smooth fabric in his pocket—something he keeps on forgetting about—and he pulls it out, finding his excuse.

“Hey Cas,” he says, revealing his presence. Cas whips around, mouth slightly gaped. Dean smiles apologetically and holds up the navy-blue mask as he approaches. “Still haven’t returned this, have I?” 

Blinking, Cas reaches out so Dean can drop it into his palm. “Thank you.”

Now that he’s closer, Dean can see that Cas is holding his wooly poncho in his lap, its bright white easy to pick out in the darkness. Some of the material looks denser, as if he had been washing it before Dean had arrived.

“You’re going in as the Bandit tomorrow?” Dean asks, eyeing the mask. It’s a little pointless, considering that Alastair knows Cas’s identity in addition to the rest of the hunters. Cas thumbs at his poncho.

He shrugs. “It feels right.”

Dean’s still avoiding the subject. Cas keeps glancing at him, but Dean can’t find the right words, too stubborn to properly fess up yet needing to make sure that they’ll be at their peak during the raid.

“We’re cool… right?” he says slowly, crouching down to watch the water beside his companion. 

“... What do you mean?”

Dean sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Sammy’s right: we can’t do this together when we’re giving each other the silent treatment; I need to make sure you’ll have my back when I face Alastair tomorrow.” When he glances to the side to read Cas’s reaction, he’s met with an incredulous stare.

“I’ve saved you many times before, and I’ll save you as many times as I need to.”

Dean shifts his weight. “You don’t need to have me saved.”

“You underestimate many things, Dean; apparently, this includes your importance to me.”

Staring at the eddies swirling along the brook, Cas’s words echo in Dean’s head like church-bells, ringing and all-consuming.

“Why?” he urges. “I’ve asked you before, but what do you need from me?”

“Isn’t it enough just to have you?”

Dean’s at a loss for words. His mouth opens with the intention of replying, but he genuinely can’t come up with a response, his entire thought process having come to a halt. Then, his mind is racing, clawing at an explanation he wants desperately to be true but knows realistically is impossible.

Gulping, he changes the topic, because it’s the only way he can properly enunciate anything that comes out of his mouth at the moment. “I’ve got your back too, just in case you were wondering.” Cas, thankfully, does not comment on the conversation shift. “I know we left on a bad foot at the ranch, but I still feel the same: I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”

For a second, it looks like Cas is going to protest, but then his features soften. “Thank you, Dean.” Dean nods, giving him an awkward smile in return.

Not wanting to leave Cas’s side just yet, he tugs off his boots and shrugs off his duster, rolling up his pant legs so he can wade into the creek. As soon as his foot touches the water, he hisses through his teeth, already chilled with the night mountain breeze. He can feel Cas’s gaze trailing his every move.

“Last night on Earth, huh,” he says lightly. Rolling up his sleeves, he bends down to splash water onto his face. It’s cold enough to wake him up with a gasp. He runs his wet hands back through his spiked hair. “Ever wondered how you’d spend it?”

“It’s not—”

Dean shrugs, still pretending to concentrate on the water in his hands. “You saw how everyone was acting earlier. Could very well be a last night for any of us.”

There’s a pause where Cas considers his response. “I can’t die.”

“Alastair thinks you can,” he laughs. “C’mon, Cas: humor me.”

Cas peers at him curiously. “I’ve never thought about it before.”

“Right, right…  _ immortality _ .” Dean rolls his eyes. “I’d always thought I’d make love, grab life by the reins and ride it out.” Grinning at his little joke, he splashes his face with more water and rubs away any grease. A few chilly droplets run down his chest underneath his shirt, and he can’t stop the shaky inhale with the freezing shock.

“You’re cold.”

Dean hums in agreement. “A little.”

Cas lifts his hand from his poncho, showing Dean how it softly glows.  _ He’s been drying his poncho with his hands. _

“Won’t it burn me?” he asks, thinking back to all the charred vessels Cas had left in his wake with trepidation.

He shakes his head. “I won’t burn you.”

Dean is suddenly overcome with the same impulse one feels to touch what cannot be touched; to reach out for the beast, to touch and to be consumed. Cas’s hand has never been more inviting (as tempting as it has been in the past), and he longs to seek out its warmth. He’s barely aware of the fact that he’s stepping forward, pushing against the water and towards the light.

On the shore, he stands in front of the other, shivering but unsure of how to proceed. Taking one last deep breath before the plunge, Dean steps forward and sits on the open lap, straddling Cas’s legs with his own, damper ones. He barely catches the hitch in the other man’s breath.

Unfazed and gaze unbroken, Cas lifts the poncho—now pressed closer to his chest between them—and pulls it over Dean’s head. The wool is warm against his skin, like it has been laying out in the sun. Even when Dean’s shivering slowly begins to die down, Cas’s glowing hand creeps over his shoulder until his palm rests against the back of his neck.

Heat seeps into his flesh, creeping beneath his skin like water crawling up fabric. It’s more than just the warmth, though, and Dean sighs into the feeling, leaning back into the touch. Miraculously, it pulls him back, drawing him closer so that he can feel the puffs of breath against his bared neck.

“You’ll catch a cold,” Cas murmurs, head bowed so that he’s almost touching Dean’s collar with his lips. 

There are fingers dancing up his chest—hardly hidden underneath the wool of the poncho—barely discernible with their light touch of the fabric, until they begin unfastening each button with graceful dexterity, skirting down the lip of the shirt onto the next. Dean is all-too aware of every shaky breath, how the expanding of his chest draws those working fingers almost close enough to touch. 

His own hands grip his thighs with too much force. While rinsing his face, some water had splashed onto his shirt and dampened it enough that it draped heavily over his chest, but after Cas frees the last button (which is, Dean is vividly aware, awfully close to his growing interest), he pushes the fabric away, tugging the fabric to the side until Dean relaxes his grip enough to let the sleeves be pulled from his arms. Cas tosses the damp shirt to the side, but Dean is more concerned with the warmth of the freshly-dried poncho—the very same of the staggeringly powerful White Bandit—against his bare chest.

Hands now released and fingers twitching for something to grab onto, Dean lets them falter forward, resting tentatively on each side of Cas’s waist. He only registers the breathy “ _ please _ ” that falls from his lips when Cas surges forward, using the hand warming the back of his neck to bring Dean towards him. Throwing his head back in a gasp, he lets Cas nuzzle his way into the poncho to worship the expanse of skin where Dean’s neck slopes down into his shoulder, teasing the flesh with his teeth.

His head is spinning with want—no,  _ need _ —as his hands scramble to tighten their grip. Cas is pulling him forward with his freed hand, easily dragging Dean flush against his chest with the hold he has on Dean’s ass; it’s the combination of this minute show of strength and the fact that there’s no doubt Dean is now sitting on an erection that makes him moan, rocking into the friction until he hears a low noise at come from the back of Cas’s throat.

“ _ I’ve wanted this, _ ” Dean gasps, finding his hands crawling up Cas’s sides and burying themselves in his hair, “ _ for so long…”  _ He pulls him closer still, feeling how his bottom lip drags across his skin as Cas moves to nibble at his jawline. When he kisses up the stubble that reaches up to his hairline, nipping at an ear, Dean hums pleasantly.

“I’ve also found you,” Cas murmurs, voice a rumble of thunder, “extremely attractive.” The tip of Cas’s nose brushes against his cheek until his lips meet Dean’s, and then he’s surging forward, pressing into him not just to taste but to  _ feel _ . 

Dean kisses back, licking into his mouth as his heart thrums, alive with the sensation of touching and being touched. His fingers thread through hair, one gripping tight while the other slides down, guiding Cas’s cheek with his hand. 

Pausing to catch his breath momentarily, he leans his forehead against Cas, who is busy peppering kisses on whatever part of Dean is beneath his lips; it’s then that Dean processes Cas’s words, turning them over slowly in his head.

_ I’ve also found you extremely attractive. _ Dean breathes out and his shoulders drop just a touch.  _ Of course _ . That’s all this is. Dean is just here to burn off some steam, let out whatever has been building over the past week (weeks…  _ months… _ ) as Cas steals his own pleasure. His fingers contract slightly so that his blunt fingernails scrape against Cas’s scalp. 

Cas pauses, tilting his head up to look Dean in the eye as best as he can, an open question lingering in his expression. Dean stares back, mesmerized by how Cas’s soul glows softly from behind his eyes, simmering with an undercurrent of power to which Dean is addicted. Rubbing his thumb along Cas’s cheekbone, he dips back into the space between them, capturing Cas’s lip between his own; eyes flutter shut at the contact, and when Dean grinds down, chasing the friction that sparks in his abdomen, it’s like their rhythm clicks back into place, and they lose themselves in each other.

There’s a point—some time after their kisses became more desperate, hungry for anything more—that Cas’s hand slips away from the back of Dean’s neck, mirroring his other hand to grip Dean’s ass and heave him up in one fell swoop. Dean yelps at the ease in the phoenix’s actions, and his wandering hands fly up to circle around Cas’s neck and his legs around his waist as he’s carried and shoved against a nearby cottonwood tree. The entire time, Cas’s face is buried in Dean’s neck, sucking in a mark that will surely last a while.

Wriggling one arm between himself and Cas, Dean feels for his pocket, searching for the small tub of petroleum jelly he’s been carrying with himself as of late; there had been two times that he and Jessie had attempted tried something a little more intrusive, and Dean would be lying if he said he wasn’t aiming for a third during the short period of time they were at the ranch. Even though things didn’t quite pan out, Dean had also spent some time cleaning and stretching himself out during his private bathing sessions in the small hope that maybe Benny would comply. Either way, it seems like effort will be paid off.

Gently easing Cas’s arm away by trailing his fingers down to his hand, he presses the tub into Cas’s palm. Fingers close around it along with some sense of understanding, and Dean’s lips curl up into a smile as Cas noses his way up to leave lingering kisses, tugging at his bottom lip as he pulls away.

Cas holds Dean up against the tree with one hand as he fiddles with the tub. Eager to move along and just feel more, he takes the opportunity in the momentary lull to shimmy his pants down, helped by the hand that’s still holding him up and against the thick tree trunk. Finally, he’s free, the fabric of his trousers preventing him from pressing any closer to Cas, but the cool mountain air feels exquisite against his skin, heightening his sensitivity while his dick bobs up against his bare stomach.

The tub of petroleum jelly must be tucked away somewhere, because Cas’s other hand leaves his ass, leaving Dean held up by the mere force of Cas’s pelvis pressing him up and against the tree in addition to how Dean’s legs wrap around his hips. 

“Let me take care of you,” he murmurs, pulling both of Dean’s hands up against the tree. Dean belatedly realizes that the mask he had just returned to Cas is in his hand, reaching up to tie Dean’s wrists together. Whimpering at the thought, he nods, easily complying to whatever Cas has in mind. The knot is tight enough that he can barely twist his wrists around, but the fabric is smooth. Dean drops his arms so that they drape over Cas’s shoulders.

Holding Dean up with one hand under his ass again, spreading the cheek aside, Cas coats his free fingers with the lubricant and barely begins to tease him open. Dean whimpers, forehead fallen against Cas’s, pushing down against a force that is much stronger than him, and the notion itself is enough to make his dick twitch. Nudging his face up, Cas kisses him lazily, somewhat distracted from his own task at hand, but he’s cognizant enough that Dean isn’t really in need of the diversion; nonetheless, Dean takes what he can get.

“ _ More,” _ Dean mumbles, half-incoherently. Cas adds another finger, but in realizing that he didn’t articulate his want properly, Dean lifts his tied hands over Cas’s neck and sets them against his chest. The bend of his elbows pushes some space between them, and his fingers set to work on the buttons on Cas’s shirt, fumbling with the reduced mobility of his hands but desperate to feel the other’s bare chest, to have his chest—heaving with breath—completely flush against the other’s.

Dean barely realizes just how far Cas has gotten with the stretching, but when he nudges the each side of the shirt to the side, pressing his palms against Cas’s chest as best as he can, Cas’s fingers are gone, and Dean squirms with the loss. His own fingers curl into skin, blunt nails barely digging in, when Cas’s hand shifts between them, struggling to unfasten his pants and pull himself out. When he feels the head of a plump cock trail precome up his thigh to the space between his thighs, Dean groans, letting his tied wrists lift over Cas’s head so he can pull him in closer.

There’s a moment where he’s slicking himself with more lubricant, but then Cas is lining himself up, pulling Dean down onto himself as he pushes in. Dean gasps and throws his head back, feeling how the bark of the tree is rough against his scalp, and his neck becomes bared for Cas to press lips against. The slide in is slow, and Dean digs his nails into his palms, and then he’s so  _ full _ , the wool of Cas’s poncho bunching up against the tree where he’s slid down.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Dean gasps, laughing breathily. “Gimme a moment.” Cas nods against Dean, panting against his shoulder; Dean can almost  _ feel  _ the self control in each shaky breath, and it makes him grin.

Breathing out slowly, he lets himself relax and grow accustomed to the stretch. Cas is so fucking  _ deep _ , having even gravity pulling him down onto his dick, and just being able to feel how Cas twitches inside of him in his effort to restrain himself, his fingers digging bruises into Dean’s ass, is doing nothing but further turn Dean on.

“Okay,” Dean says. “You can move now.”

He slides out, and then rolls his hips back up. Dean bites his lip.

As he continues with his lazy ministrations (every once in a while, his control will slip, and his hips will snap up with a yelp from Dean), Cas tilts his head upwards, and they share the same space forehead-to-forehead, breathing the same breath.

Finally, there’s a stroke that makes Dean’s toes curl, a mere brush of something that makes him light up from the inside and cry out, and he finds himself seeking out the sensation again, whining “ _ god, fuck, yes, right there _ ”. Cas’s pace begins to speed up, and Dean’s bouncing on his dick, chasing the high that is just out of his reach as his legs shake with the overwhelming stimulation.

“Wait, Cas —  _ fuck _ ,” he murmurs, nibbling Cas’s ear. Cas pauses, slowing to a teasing pace as if he were gently easing them away from their peak too soon. “ _ Please _ ,” Dean says. “Let me see your wings.”

Cas doesn’t even bother looking up at him (which Dean wouldn’t be able to tell anyhow, too focused on trying to center himself, keep himself from coming too soon); he’s delayed in his motions only to concentrate on the manifestation of the brilliant, bird-like wings that unfurl from behind him, lighting up the space around him like a glowing halo. Dean watches the patterns that he’s longed to touch appear once again, but then he’s drawn back to Cas, back to the gleaming eyes that blink back open.

“ _ Fuck _ , Cas,” Dean groans, vividly aware of how tight the mask is around his wrists. In one swift movement, he pushes his hands into the limb of one of the wings, and it’s like nothing he’s ever experienced before.

Delving so deep into Cas’s very soul, intertwining his own flesh with the light that sifts and rustles as feathers, he’s overcome with a sense of unity that he never thought possible before — it’s like his own mind is reaching back out, seeking to enhance the connection on its own accord. Dean is vaguely aware of Cas vocalizing at the contact, and Dean is pretty sure there’s some sort of sound falling from his own lips, but all is pushed to the back of his mind when Cas’s wings close around them and engulf them in warm light.

Dean is dimly aware that he’s being fucked out of his mind, so caught up in the general haze of ecstasy wrapped around his entire being, but when Cas changes his angle again so that the stunning spark that jolts his reality is doubled over, he comes to realize that he can feel what Cas is feeling; the channel must work both ways, because Cas is quick to adjust so that he’s hitting that spot over and over and over again, the grip on Dean’s hips pulling him to where he wants as he fucks into him.

As everything is building, pressure sharpening until it’s on the verge of snapping, Cas brings one of his hands up to Dean’s bare shoulder, holding him against the tree. He’s mouthing at Dean’s jaw, searching for Dean’s in a daze, so Dean meets him in the middle if only for another way to cling on. 

When one tumbles over the edge, they draw the other with them. It’s an intensity Dean’s never experienced before in his life. Distantly, he can feel his shoulder burning, but with the boundless pleasure that overshadows just about every other sense, he gives it no notice. 

While the peak finally begins to ebb, Dean can open his eyes just enough to see how Cas’s wings are stretched all the way out—probably having spread at the force of their climax—and fading softly into the night. Considering he currently feels a little like jelly, he’s glad Cas still has the strength to hold him up.

The stinging on his shoulder is no longer deniable, and a soft hiss escapes Dean’s teeth as he turns to look at it: there’s a handprint burned into his skin where Cas had been gripping him only moments before.

“You said you wouldn’t burn me,” Dean teases. It hurts, but there’s a part of him that’s baffled he was able to induce such an intense reaction. 

“I’m sorry,” Cas murmurs into Dean’s shoulder, having dropped his head again so that he’s nuzzled into Dean’s neck. He sounds genuinely regretful, and Dean is just a little too pleased with its connotations.

“It’s not that bad,” he assures him. He kind of wants to run his hands through the tousled black hair, but his hands are still tied. When Cas doesn’t move, much less respond, Dean laughs low in his chest. “What is it?”

“I like my scent on you.”

_ Fuck _ . Cas’s voice is thoroughly fucked now too, and the words themselves are enough to make Dean’s nerves prickle. 

Leaning his head back against the cottonwood tree, feeling the soft kisses being pressed to his collar, he grins.

“So do I.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Dean is roused by the others, already restless to start the mission. It’s odd, finding himself one of the last to be awake, but he finds himself relishing the feeling of his warm hen skins and the safety within which it cocoons him.

Usually, an ambush of this type is done at night, but with the expertise involved and the fact that it might throw off Alastair and his cronies, they’ve decided to set the mission during the day. At least it’ll give them ample light for navigation, which is their one disadvantage they have from the demon’s presumably heightened sensing ability.

There’s an ache in his limbs that is beginning to settle as his head clears. Dean tries to roll over, but he groans when he realizes his ass in particular is tender.

“Finally awake?”

Blinking, Dean looks up from his makeshift pillow, doing his best to discern the figure blocking the blinding light of day. Turns out it’s Cas who’s hovering above him.

“Why didn’t you wake me earlier?” Dean grumbles, rolling over onto his side. He’ll get up… soon. As soon as Cas leaves him alone.

“You need the extra rest,” Cas says simply. “I thought you’d want this.”

Taking a deep breath, Dean looks over his shoulder to see what he’s referring to. A pang of nostalgia hits him when he sees the handful of willow bark being held out to him, along with a freshly-filled water canteen held in his other hand.

“Oh.” Dean heaves himself up, wincing when he puts pressure right where it’s sore — he seeks out the pain instead, in an effort to let it dissipate. “Thanks.”

Cas nods, watching Dean as he drinks from the canteen. When he returns it to Cas and shoves the willow bark into his mouth, Cas leans forward and brushes what Dean now notices are bandages on his shoulder.

“How are you… feeling?” he says, slowly, like he’s not quite sure how to articulate his concern. 

Dean must have been ready to pass out after their little rough-and-tumble, because he only remembers what happened after in a haze: mainly, Cas had cleaned them both up and collected all their things before carrying Dean back to the camp. Evidently, he had also tended to the handprint that is now burned onto Dean’s shoulder.

It’s more than was needed.

“I’ll be fine,” Dean grouches. “Once this kicks in, I’ll be good to go.”

Cas peers at him questioningly for a second, but then he’s standing, leaving Dean be. Dean exhales.

He’s asked before, but he never got an answer: Dean still can’t fathom what Cas’s plan is after this is all over. Dean, for one, will not have demons chasing his ass every godforsaken day on this Earth, but Cas will become untethered. Sure, he’ll have his brother, but who’s to say he won’t bring Gabriel with him, disappearing to spend out his last days with him as best as he can until Gabe withers away to dust and Cas is left to disappear into oblivion. 

In the grand scheme of things, Dean is nothing but a speck of sand in Cas’s lifespan; perhaps he clings on tighter than most, with him the entire ride home, but he’ll be washed off like the others in the end.

A fling. That’s all last night was, and Dean’s going to have to accept the fact at some point or another.

Too bad he’ll have a constant reminder of last night throughout the day. Dean winces as he gets to his feet—willow bark not having kicked in yet—and starts to get ready for the day they have ahead.

Because he was late to rise, a breakfast of bacon is already sizzling in the pan by the fire, and people are already helping themselves to rolls and butter. Dean joins the line in silence.

As he’s eating, he finds out that Pay-ati had gone up to Alastair’s lair around dusk to scout out the area, and it looks like Dean’s plan will work out fine: it’s a large house (apparently, calling it a cabin would be doing it a disservice) with two stories, sat in a flatter clearing by a creek. The reality of what they’re about to encounter still hasn’t settled in, so Dean meditates in the silence of his brother’ and Charlie’s company.

With nothing more to do than wait, after every last crumb of food is swiped up (no one is really all that hungry, but they keep nudging each other, saying they’ll need the extra energy) and the dishes washed and returned to the chuckwagon, Dean sits on the largest boulder, outlining the plan he’s refined for days to the stoic and attentive faces around him.

It goes something like this: Pay-ati, who generally prefers to stay out of conflict and has a better touch with first aid, will stay behind with the chuckwagon and the horses, only a two-hour hike down from where Alastair’s lair is situated. Extra time will have to be accounted for the group trekking around the house with a large berth, circling around for the main group to start their attack. Twenty minutes after everyone is in their positions, Bobby, Rufus, Charlie, and Jo will infiltrate from the back of the house, creating a false diversion (being presumably unknown hunters, attacking from the back) to draw out the attention of a good portion of the demons. While they deal with that crowd, John, Mary, and Benny will circle around to the sides and front of the house to take care of any lingering demons on guard duty. Just from the commotion, Dean’s hoping most of the demons will be drawn outside, but just in case, Cas will fly both Gabe and Sammy inside to clean out the lair from the inside. Meanwhile, Cas will do a quick scout to figure out where Alastair himself is actually situated, where he’ll then fly out to grab Dean and place him as close to the evil bastard as possible.

“And you’ve got the shooter to get the job done?” Rufus says, once Dean’s finished explaining the basics. Though he leaves it in the holster he’d gotten fitted, Dean is vividly aware of the Peacemaker hanging heavy at his side.

“I’ve beefed enough demons to know it gets the job done.” He doesn’t voice his insecurities on whether or not it’ll work on  _ Alastair _ . Rufus still looks skeptical, but he always does, so Dean’s not too bothered.

There aren’t any more questions regarding the plan, which is probably fine, considering most of the group is well-versed in holding their head above the water in situations like this. Mary comes up to him while everyone else is packing up their equipment, touching his shoulder gently and telling him that his plan is clever and well thought out. Dean nods and leans into her touch, his chest already feeling tight for some reason.

He spends some extra time with Impala, leaning his forehead against her cheek as he murmurs to her softly. She nudges him back, nibbling at him for sugar, and he laughs, oddly on the verge of crying. He smooths down her mane, whispering for her to take care and to be nice to Pay-ati, pressing his thanks into a lingering kiss on her neck before leaning against her for some longer. Swallowing down the lump on his throat, he runs his fingers through her mane one more time before turning on his heel to go wait at the edge of the camp for everyone else.

On the hike, it’s easier to quell any emotion, to gulp it down and let it dissipate like it was never there in the first place. No one talks to him, and he walks a few paces ahead of the caravan to let his head clear. Immersing himself in the nature around him makes it easy for the tension to seep out of his bones, and suddenly his senses are clearer, tuned into every footstep of his party. 

Castiel has donned his White Bandit gear, Dean had noticed earlier. At some point, they all stop by a creek for a drink and a quick rest, not wanting to be winded for the attack, and when they continue on again, Castiel—at a respectful distance—walks closest to Dean. It’s strange, walking side-by-side this myth he didn’t even consider existed a few months ago, and now he knows the legend carnally. A shiver runs down his spine at the mere thought (something about the power gap really does it for him, apparently), and he catches himself glancing at the way the white poncho flows out behind him as he hikes.

Two hours passes quicker than Dean would’ve liked, and he’s the first to spot the large cabin in the clearing, half-hidden by the pines that grow at this elevation. Benny stays behind, stationed where he needs to be for the attack, and pulls Dean into a quick hug before the rest of the party leaves.

“I’ll see you on the other side, brother.”

Dean nods tightly, relishing in the touch for just a moment too long. “Good luck out there, Benny.” They slap each other on the back before pulling away.

He’s about to join everyone else, but John pulls Dean to the side.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he sighs, holding the side of Dean’s arm but not daring to attempt anything else. “I’m sorry about everything that’s happened.” His tone is genuine, so Dean shifts unsurely under his unwavering gaze.

“I know,” he murmurs, still avoiding eye contact.

“Just… promise to make me proud out there.” John pauses, his attention flickering over to the waiting party behind them. “No. Make your mother proud; I know I already am.” Smiling so that crow’s feet wrinkle by his eyes, he squeezes Dean’s arm before letting go, turning around to the opposite direction they’re headed to seek out his own post. Dean stands there for longer than he has to, doing his damndest to process what he had just been told.

They retreat a bit, circling wide enough around the grounds that they shouldn’t call any attention to themselves, concealed by the slope downwards. When they’re approximately on the very western side of the house, half of them stop, having reached their rendezvous. All five of them watch the diversion team continue their trek to the back of the cabin, and when the trees have engulfed them, Mary turns to Dean.

“Thanks for trusting us,” she tells him, soft enough that he’s the only one that hears. He takes out the Colt, shining it with his thumb so he can avoid acknowledging the sentiment head-on.

“I’m the one with the one-way ticket to the boneyard,” he mumbles, trying to grin. Mary, despite not having known him that long, seems to see through him way too easily.

“It’s not a large place, and I can only see a couple of guards milling around from where I am.” Through the shrubs they hide behind, Dean can spot some moving figures in the distance. “They may be tough sons of bitches, but we have numbers and experience. We’ll be okay.”

Dean loads the bullets into the Colt’s cylinder, and clicking it back into place gives him some sense of confidence.

“He has Eusolis,” Dean reminds her, thinking about how Cain had said something about the pocket watch being unable to hurt anything older than itself. 

Mary shrugs. “Guess you’ll get him between the eyes before he has time to react. You’re smart.” Dean wants to protest, but, knowing Dean, Mary is already moving on, not letting him get a word in. “C’mon and help me figure out where to set some traps.” Relenting, he sets his bag down and begins to search for the paint they had packed for the trip.

There’s just over twenty minutes left until showtime, so Dean immerses himself in work, reveling in the simple task of keeping his hands busy. As he takes a break for a swig of the firewater canteen he always has on him, he watches Castiel speaking with his brother, both of their expressions indiscernible. Gabriel looks like he’s protesting for a moment, but then Castiel reveals a knife Dean has seen him use against demons in the past, gifting it to his brother without taking “ _ no _ ” for an answer. Averting his eyes, he goes back to securing the bandages on his shoulder.

In the distance, they all hear a gunshot, and even lying in wait, they perk up. Generally speaking, invasions of these types are best as quiet as possible, and while the diversion team is supposed to keep somewhat of a façade that they’re being discreet, they’re also meant to draw attention to themselves. Mary is gone in a flash, navigating yet concealing herself in the underbrush with expertise.

Dean plays with the Colt, thumbing at the handle where it sits in his holster. At the moment, they’re waiting for the other teams to do their job and successfully draw out most of the demons, but any minute now, Castiel will disappear with Gabe and Sammy, and Dean will be left alone. At the intrusive thought of it possibly being the last time he’ll see his brother, he catches his eye and throws him a strained smile, mentally wishing him luck on his mission.

Something brushes Dean’s side, and he’s quick to draw the Colt and pull the hammer back, but he turns to see Castiel crouched by him, eyes piercing through the mask.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he promises, words hovering just above a whisper. Dean has a moment of separated reality, confronted with how much he currently sees the man as the White Bandit rather than  _ just Cas _ , but he shuts his mouth and nods, brow furrowed in accusation.

“I know what the plan is,” he whispers back, easing the revolver away from Castiel’s arm and back into his holster. He can’t quite read Castiel’s expression, but then the phoenix nods and retreats.

He approaches Gabriel and Sam with his cape fluttering behind him like a ghost, reaching out to grab their arms. Dean knows he shouldn’t take his eyes off the house, but he can’t tear his gaze away from how in one instant, all three of them are there, weapons wielded and ready, and the next they’re gone, as if they’d simply blinked out of existence. He’d never seen the phenomenon as a bystander, and while the fluttering of wings makes it perfectly clear as to what had just happened, Dean can’t help but blink at where they had just been standing.

The next minute becomes more agonizing by the second. Dean can hear the commotion,  _ hear  _ the battles that are raging between hunter and demon, but here he sits, a quiet onlooker with no intention to go and  _ help _ ; the notion infuriates him. His fingers are itching to pull the trigger, because he’s suddenly aware that he’s the only one armed with something that can actually  _ kill  _ these hell spawn (though, perhaps with the exception of Gabriel and Castiel), once and for all. Everyone else is armed with traps and incantations and weapons that can only hinder the demons, waltzing towards death like one would armed with a pencil in a swordfight. There’s a scream in the distance, and Dean has to bury his nails in his own skin to center himself and impede his incentive to run out and  _ avenge _ .

_ Is Castiel taking too long? _ Dean wonders desperately.  _ How much time has passed? _ His head is spinning, so he shuts his eyes only for a moment and takes a deep breath, listening to the sounds of the forest around him.

After what feels like too long, wings flutter behind Dean, and he’s quick to swivel around and greet the phoenix. While unharmed, and as stoic as the White Bandit always is, he seems… agitated. His movements towards Dean are quicker, jerkier. 

“I found Alastair’s office, but I can’t get in,” Castiel is telling him, words tumbling from his mouth as Dean scrambles to pick them up. “Gabriel and Sam are dealing with many within the house, but there’s still some guarding the office. I can get you to the hallway before his office, but you’ll have to be quick — I’ll try and keep the other demons at bay.”

Dean nods dazedly, dizzy with the information that is being flooded onto him. Castiel is drawing closer and closer and then… and then he stops, his hand lingering in the air over Dean’s arm, taking in Dean’s stunned expression. 

“I’ve… ‘ _ got your back _ ’,” he says slowly, stumbling over the idiom. “All you need to focus on is Alastair: I’ll be at the door to make sure nothing else can pass.” The hand grabs his arm and squeezes reassuringly. 

Breathing out, Dean levels his gaze to Cas’s. “Okay. I’m ready.”

Dean hovers his hand over his holster as Cas pulls him in, holding him close as he lifts both of them into the air. The flight itself is so quick that Dean doesn’t even register it, and then he’s standing in a dingy hallway, regaining his footing on creaking floorboards.

“ _ Go _ , Dean!” Cas is growling at him, and Dean snaps back to attention, seeing the handful of demons that lunge towards them — they had been lying in wait. Dean barely manages to dodge out of the way, using his other hand to draw a holy-water-doused blade to momentarily stun the woman that lunges at him. 

Dean is still staring at Cas, watching as more and more demons flood from every doorway and up the stairwell, tugging at his cape to claim just a chunk of him as their own, and the white of his poncho is being drowned out by the clamour of demons trying to get close to him. His grip tightens on his blade, and his dominant hand further nears the peacemaker, dead set on pulling Cas away from the epicenter.

“ _ Go! _ ” Cas repeats, peeking out from the mayhem. A few burnt faces fall away from where his flaming palms are held out. Dean, still struggling to wrap his head around what’s happening, stumbles backwards, finally turning tail and dashing to the doors at the end of the hallway. His hand shakes as he reaches out for the doorknob—barely perceptible—but then he’s pushing his way through, stepping into the room before anything else can follow him.

The office is like an entirely different world from the hallway. Windows let plenty of light spill into the room, and the layout leaves it open and airy, like it was meant to be a sitting room or even a bedroom instead of an office. At the very end of the room, there’s a desk, and there’s a man sitting in the chair staring at Dean.

With a  _ whoosh _ , the doors slam shut behind Dean by their own accord, snapping Dean’s spine straighter. The man at the desk leers at him.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean doesn’t let himself think, drawing the peacemaker from his holster and pulling the trigger with an aim that he’s perfected over the course of his entire lifetime. There’s a bang, and Dean keeps his stance, not daring to move a muscle.

Alastair sits there, with a bullet hole dead center of his forehead, still smiling eerily back at Dean.

“ _ Aw… _ you didn’t  _ really  _ think that would work, now, did you?” he simpers, and Dean can feel his skin crawl at the mere sound of his voice.

The Colt didn’t work.

_ The Colt didn’t work, _ his brain screams at him again, doing its damndest to get him to just  _ move _ ; Dean can’t, though, because he doesn’t know what to do. 

Thinking it was just a fluke, Dean pulls back the hammer and shoots the last five rounds in quick succession, not really caring much for aim anymore. One of the bullets hits his neck, a few hit his chest, but none of them spark the life out of him, leaving Alastair to stare back at him with terrifying amusement.

“‘Fraid this just isn’t going to work, Dean,” Alastair says,  _ pityingly _ , like it’s actually something he cares about, and his voice makes Dean’s head want to spin, makes him want to recoil and plug his ears. Dean pulls the trigger a few more times, but the barrel is empty.

“Why?” he finally asks, voice cracking. He keeps the gun drawn pointlessly, if only to give himself some false sense of security. There’s more bullets in his pocket, but he knows that no matter how many are emptied into Alastair’s meatsuit, nothing will be changed.

“I’ve already tasted some of the phoenix's flesh,” Alastair hums, not even bothering to look at Dean anymore. “Looks like it’s enough to keep your little pistol from doing any real harm.” Dean doesn’t say anything, but Alastair holds a hand to his heart and looks up at Dean woefully. “You  _ wound  _ me, Dean; I thought you’d be more fun than this.”

Dean barely contains himself from twitching, knowing that if he reacts, it’ll just egg the demon on. His grip shifts slightly on the Colt, fingers tightening around the handle.

“Well, I suppose I should thank you, for bringing the Colt right to my doorstep,” Alastair sighs, and then tips his head to the hallway, “and, of course, it was ever so  _ kind  _ of you to pick up the pastries along the way.”

Dread sinks into the pit of Dean’s stomach.  _ Cas _ . He brought  _ Cas  _ here, right into the hungry beast’s stomach. His arm trembles slightly, and he focuses every ounce of his concentration to keep it still.

He can’t think of anything to say.  _ He can’t think of anything to say. _ His breath should be heaving in his chest, and his head should be spinning, but instead, Dean is perfectly calm. His mind feels clear like an unbroken lake, and he’s standing at the mirror’s edge. He’s searching for an answer, seeking any sort of response, but nothing breaks the surface.

“Really,  _ how can I repay you? _ ” Alastair mocks in that nasal voice of his, and with a flick of his fingers, the Colt is trying to leap out of Dean’s grasp, straining desperately against his hold. Dean only holds on tighter, straining the muscles in his arms until his fingers are numb, but Alastair must allow Dean to keep his grasp, enjoying the way the helpless man is dragged across the rug as the revolver flies into Alastiar’s grasp. Dean doubles over the desk, winded by how he’s folded over its surface. 

“Don’t do this, Alastair,” Dean wheezes, because, well… it’s the only thing that came to mind. He struggles to straighten himself, but there’s some force keeping him bent over the table, and it makes Dean feel sick.

Alastair twirls the Colt in his hand, peering at it closer to his face.  _ “Now, now _ , Dean — don’t be coy,” he purrs. 

He places the Colt down in the middle of the desk, right in front of Dean’s nose—right where he’s so close but  _ just can’t reach _ —and stands up, walking around the chair to shrug off his suit jacket and roll up his sleeves. It’s only  _ then  _ that Dean catches sight of his other hand—no,  _ arm _ —that hangs useless from his shirt sleeve, black as soot. It’s shriveled and blistered horrendously, like he’s waving around a stick of charcoal instead of a hand… and it’s definitely something that wasn’t there before.

“I’m an expert, with these kinds of things,” Alastair continues conversationally, absently adjusting a sleeve cuff. “I used to train the most promising souls, you know.” He’s meandering around the desk, drifting to where Dean can’t see him. Dean squeezes his eyes shut, because it won’t change much as it is.

“Spit it out,” he snaps.

There’s a beat of silence, and then there’s a line of heat pressing against Dean’s back, bony and suffocating and making Dean want to curl into himself. The burnt excuse for a hand curls around his arm to cup his chin, tilting his head so that there’s chapped lips mouthing at the shell of his ear, too-hot breath puffing onto sensitive skin. Dean is biting his tongue so hard he’s sure it’ll bleed.

“I want to see you  _ break _ , Dean Winchester,” he murmurs, whispered like it’s a dirty little secret. “I want to flay you piece by piece, keeping you tied together by a thread as you valiantly pretend you’re strong, that it’s all okay, and watch as the last peg is nailed into place, watch as you fall apart from the very core.”

Dean shivers, and he hates every second of it. Foreign spit coats his skin like a layer of poison, and he wants to recoil, to escape inside of himself, but he’s trapped, helpless under an unseen force.

“Then  _ break  _ me,” Dean says, his challenging grin almost a grimace. 

A bony finger trails up the slope of his back, and he squeezes his eyes shut even tighter… and then there’s the rip of fabric loud and clear, all the way down his back, followed by a splitting pain that parts his very skin. Dean only registers he’s crying out when whatever knife Alastair procured has left him, the sound echoing in his ears as his chest heaves.

“I’m glad you’re having fun now,” Alastair simpers. The tip of the blade is trailing over Dean’s shoulder, and the revealed skin prickles at the contact. He uses the blade to pull the ripped fabric of Dean’s shirt away, baring him so that he’s vulnerable to the world. “I like to play with my food, after all.”

The blade continues to undress him, and while at least the slimy son of a bitch isn’t pressed up against him anymore, Dean feels stripped under his gaze. A trickle of warm blood seeps into the waistline of his pants.

And then, the blade stops, and Dean comes to realize that the lack of movement is so much worse.

“ _ What’s this? _ ” Alastair coos. The bandages on his shoulder unravel, and Dean knows that the cool air on his burn will soon cease to be of any relief. 

He’s bracing himself for the cold metal of the blade, for the sharp sting of skin being split, but when he’s greeted with neither, faced with the tips of fingers against his tender wound, he feels revolted. In a way, his mind tries to reach out to the fingers, trying to find Cas in the touch, but it’s like he can sense the very evil that simmers from the demon, like every fingerprint left behind taints his very soul. The burn is searing—nothing like it was last night—and Dean barely keeps himself from sobbing out.

“ _ Now isn’t this interesting _ ,” Alastair murmurs to himself, tracing his fingers along the outline of the handprint, augmenting the agony underneath which Dean wants to writhe. “ _ Very interesting indeed. _ ”

Dean wants to bite out to stop touching him, to flinch away from the contact, but he steels himself to stand his ground. There’s a wall in his mind that’s sliding down, and it’s becoming easier to separate himself from the touch that violates his skin. Dean squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lip hard when an entire palm grips onto the tender skin, mismatching the handprint horribly. Alastair is pressing up against his back again, leaning in close so that he can feel the buzz of the demon’s nasal voice in his ear.

“ _ I’ll do anything! _ ” Alastair mocks in a falsetto. Dean winces at its shrillness. “You’re one of  _ those  _ ones, aren’t you?” The blade is back, curling around his other side so that Alastair is wrapped around his body; the tip—sharp enough to sting—is pointed under his chin, tracing his jaw and teasing down his throat. Dean can feel how the blade brushes against his stubble when he gulps, Adam’s apple bobbing dangerously close to the edge.

“You’d never admit it,” Alastair continues lightly, playing with the blade so that it scrapes precariously over Dean’s skin, “but you want to be  _ chosen _ . You want to be the hero, the lamb sent off to the lion’s den, the one that saves the day…” The blade is finally piercing enough to coax out blood, pooling out and running down Dean’s neck in rivulets. “ _ You want to be the Chosen One because you’d rather die than be alone _ .”

Dean barely even processes how the blade curves down his collarbone and across his chest, splitting flesh like the Red Sea in its wake… he doesn’t process how he whines at the sting, how tears spring to his eyes at the pain. Instead, all he can hear are Alastair’s words echoing in his head, ringing a truth about himself that he hadn’t even bothered to acknowledge before. It’s not that he minds the fact, not that it’s something he doesn’t accept: no… rather, it’s the fact that Alastair can read him like an open book that leaves him wary with despair. 

“How does it feel to be  _ chosen? _ ” Alastair leers. “You have potential, you know; I think you could become my greatest student.” His voice drops further so that his lips move against Dean’s ear, and Dean tries to ignore the nausea that rises in his stomach. “How would you like  _ that _ , Dean Winchester?

“You asked how I would break you, so I think I’ll tell you: firstly, I’m going to reap my reward. I love playing with food, you see,  _ but this? _ This is too important. I’ll make you watch as I drag your pretty bird in here, blind him in one eye so he’s helpless but leave the other so he can see your face as I bury a bullet in his brain.” The image digs in deeper than the blade could ever press into Dean’s chest. “You’ll watch as the last of his life burns out, and you’ll watch as I eat what remains.” 

Dean can’t stop himself when he gags over the desk, accidentally pressing himself into the blade hovering by his shoulder.

“ _ But you brought more treats with you, didn’t you? _ ” He can hear the toothy grin in Alastair’s voice. “How will it feel to wake up next to the rotting corpse of your brother in bed, staring at you with sunken eyes? To watch your parents strung up to the flag post until they starve to death? How about to dine with the lifeless bodies of your little friends, watching as the maggots feast on both your food and their flesh with equal delight?

“And then I’ll give  _ you  _ the blade, the power to wreak havoc and destroy; you’ll resist, at first—but you can’t die, not while I’m here—and I’ll get you to break… eventually. Once you start, it’ll become a craving, an addiction… you’ll kill, you’ll avenge… and just like you were starting to forget about your mother, you’ll forget, and you won’t know what you’re fighting for anymore — not like it’ll matter, of course, because you’ll be refined, I’ll have purified you. You’ll be boiled down to nothing but hatred, becoming the very thing you despise the most.”

And then the next words, Alastair hisses, drilling them into his conscience:

“ _ You’ll be alone. _ ”

Dean is let go, and it’s the only reason why he can tell he’s shaking against the desk. His fingers grasp at the wood, trying to root himself into reality before truly he succumbs to escape. Only in his desperate search does he catch sight of the familiar leather pouch pushed to the side, untied but not yet uncovered.

“ _ Now, then _ : why don’t we get started?”

Some force turns Dean around, and he’s held back against the desk, facing the doors to the office. Alastair, satisfied to leave Dean where he’s bleeding with his shirt almost completely torn off, drifts to the side, not quite in the center of the room but still hovering in the corner of Dean’s eye.

“Bring him in.”

The office doors slam open, and two of the demons that Cas had been holding off drag in a body, holding the slumped figure from underneath his armpits. As soon as they’re inside, the doors swing shut behind them, and they stand completely still like prison guards. 

“Leave him here,” Alastair says carelessly, flicking his hand at them in command. The demons nod before heaving the Bandit’s figure to the floor where he pools in a heap, disappearing into nonexistence after a quick exchange of smirks. Dean is horribly aware of how he and Cas (or what is left of him) are left alone with Alastair.

Dean stares at the unmoving heap in the middle of the floor. He can’t see Cas’s face from where he’s trapped, but there’s enough blood pooling onto the rug that can let him guess what kind of a state he’s in. The poncho draped over him is completely ruined, torn and scorched and dyed with blood. As Dean stares, taking in his savior before him, he feels an emptiness settle over his bones, shielding him from what will come flooding out when he lets it.

“He’s not dead,” Alastair breaks the silence like he’s starting a conversation, stepping up to where Cas lies. Dean wants to reach out to him, wants to push Alastair away and assure Cas that he’ll never let him step near, but he’s trapped where he’s bound by an invisible force, barely able to breathe under his own volition. “Not yet, at least.”

“ _ Alastair… _ ” Dean warns, his voice a growl with blocked emotion. He’s ignored, of course.

“Unconscious.” Alastair clicks his tongue disappointedly. “That won’t do.”

Leaning down and with impossible strength, Alastair grabs Cas by the hair of his head, pulling him up like a puppet. With his face revealed, Dean can see the split lip, the bloody nose, the gashes on his forehead and cheeks and jaw, the bruises that bloom under his skin… he’s almost unrecognizable, and it makes something fragment inside of Dean. 

Suddenly, Cas’s eyes are flying open, and he gasps like he’s been underwater. He winces at his general state of being, but then he’s looking up at Alastair with a mixture of awe and confusion. Alastair seems to be satisfied with this reaction.

“You can’t kill me with that,” Cas bites out, and it’s only then that Dean notices the blade that’s materialized in Alastair’s blackened hand ( _ and it really is charred _ , Dean thinks,  _ cracked like a burnt log with no flame _ ), spun playfully between his fingers.

“No, not with this,” Alastair agrees, “but I can still hurt you with it.” He stops spinning the blade and catches the handle in one smooth motion, and then he’s staring at Dean with a wicked grin. “And I can hurt  _ him _ .”

Cas is twisting his head in Alastair’s grasp, turning to try and look where Dean is frozen, piecing together the missing fragments in his mind. Dean doesn’t know how to react, doesn’t know how to deal with the helplessness that suddenly saturates Cas’s features in the surrendering slump of his body, and it feels like his chest is caving in. He bites his tongue, unwilling to give Alastair the satisfaction of a reaction.

“I think we’d all like to see your pretty face… while you still have it,” Alastair sneers, tugging harder at Cas’s hair so that his head is pulled back and his throat is bared. Dean tries to concentrate on something else, tries to close his eyes, even, but then he finds he can’t move his head an inch, and his eyes are going to dry out with how they’re forced open. “Oh no, you can’t  _ look away _ , Dean: good students pay attention in class.”

To his horror, he’s made to watch as Alastair brings the tip of the blade to flirt with Cas’s brows and down the slope of his nose, deciding between each light blue eye that tracks the motion with veiled fear. When he chooses, there’s an ear-splitting scream that scrapes against Dean’s brain, and he can’t even process what he’s seeing, zoning out because he has nothing better to do. 

“ _ Then the eyes of both of them were opened, and they realized they were naked _ … blah, blah, blah…”

Dean’s only vaguely aware that Alastair throws Cas back down, who scrambles to grasp at where his eye… used to be. Blood seeps through the cracks between his fingers, but he curls over in a vain attempt to dampen the agony. Alastair is already turned, bored, wiping his hand that had been holding Cas off on his shirt as he strolls back to his desk.

“As much as I enjoy the foreplay,” Alastair hums, dropping the bloody blade onto the desk behind him and presumably picking up the Colt, “we’ve got a show to get on.” 

He drifts back around into Dean’s field of view, toying with the Colt and studying its every asset. Over his shoulder, Dean can see how Cas is compelling himself to still and gain control of himself. Alastair ends up barricading Dean’s line of sight, however, and does a quick sweep across Dean.

“You have the other bullets with you,” Alastair says, clicking his tongue and stepping even further into Dean’s space so that his breath hits Dean’s jaw. “How many should I take? Should I empty the barrel into his corpse? Or shall we play a little roulette?”

Alastair’s arm snaps out behind him, and there’s dual cracks so loud they’re like gunfire, followed immediately by a pained shout. Dean catches the tail end of the motion as Cas falls back to the floor, apparently having tried to sit up and crawl to where Alastair and Dean are standing. He’s laying on his stomach now, one hand clutching at where his useless eye is, and his legs are splayed out behind him, equally useless. His shoulders shake with sobs that he’s desperately trying to quell.

“Can’t have you running away, now,” Alastair laughs, and he hasn’t looked back at the phoenix once. 

Confident that Cas will stay put, he brings his good hand forward again and searches Dean’s pockets for the Colt’s bullet, pressing into Dean as much as he can. When he finds what he’s looking for, he prolongs the moment, rummaging through the bullets for longer than necessary before pulling out one between the tips of two fingers.

“Let’s play a little game, shall we?” he smirks, holding up the bullet for Dean to see. “I pull the trigger, and you have to guess if that one’s a winner.” Opening the cylinder, he pops in the bullet and lets it spin before closing it, randomizing its position.

There’s a dull ache hammering at Dean’s head, urging him to descend into madness, but it’s being drowned out by a familiar warmth reaching out to him, calling out to him… no, it’s  _ singing  _ to him. He watches as Alastair squints, adjusting and aiming at Cas. Dean’s heart is pounding in his chest. If only he could  _ move _ .

“Ah, yes…  _ Castiel, dear, _ won’t you look up?” Alastair coos, and if Dean didn’t feel so empty, he would’ve been revolted. “We’d like to see the life drain out of your eyes.”

Cas is suddenly being lifted up into the air like a ragdoll, and while his legs limply drag across the rug and both hands still clutches at his bloody eye, his gaze is piercing, glaring at Alastair like it’s his last attempt at rebellion. It’s a miracle he’s still conscious, much less technically in one piece.

There must be a slip in Alastair’s concentration, but there’s a fraction of a moment where Dean’s finger twitches, and he’s distracted by the notion. Urging himself to keep his eyes on the scene before him, he lets his hand creep back on the desk behind him.

“Are you feeling lucky today?” Alastair hums, and then he’s pulling the trigger.

_ Click. _

It’s empty.

Dean heaves out a sigh he didn’t know he was holding, but then his pulse is quick to speed back up, wholly aware that Cas is now even closer to death. Cas is now staring at Dean like he wants to memorize his face, and it makes Dean ache.

Alastair clicks his tongue. “A few extra seconds! Luck is on your side today, boys.” He draws back the hammer and the cylinder shifts. “Let’s try this again.”

_ No! No, it’s too soon, Dean’s not ready, he can’t— _

_ Click. _

Dean flinches badly from the snapped tension, and he can see the corner of Alastair’s smirk twitch upwards ever so slightly. Cas isn’t moving, having resolved to stare at Dean for his precious last moments in life.

“ _ Unfortunate _ ,” Alastair says, peering down at the revolver in his hand. “Perhaps third time’s a charm.”

Alastair is looking away, he’s distracted, he’s relishing in how the phoenix has completely given up.  _ Time…  _ that’s all he needs… Dean needs  _ time _ . The hammer of the Colt is pulled back, and the cylinder shifts to the third position.

“I hope today’s sunrise was a beauty, ‘cause that’s the last one you’ll ever see.”

Over the past few months, a lot has changed — and Dean’s not one for change. He had been happy, living in ignorance… he had been  _ fulfilled _ . All it took was one errand, one near-death experience, one helping hand to raise him from the ash… and the glass holding everything in had splintered, cracking into its very foundation. Still, it held together, and time and time again, it would be chipped at, testing the extremities of its limits as the webbing fractures divided and multiplied until Dean couldn’t even see what was inside anymore.

The trigger pulls back, and there’s a bang.

That glass shatters, and all at once, everything floods out.

There’s an eruption of light, swirling faster and faster and faster around the room, blowing the bullet off its course and somehow dropping Cas back down to the floor. The warm light seeps humming energy from each and every crevice, drawing in the very sunlight that spills into the room. When it’s on the verge of too blinding, flying too fast that its heat nears boiling, the storm collapses into its epicenter, and there’s a surreal silence for just a moment before the light explodes back out, broadcasting much farther than where the wooden walls rise.

At the eye of the storm is Dean, golden pocket watch open in his palm with the hands wound back an hour, ticking like a tiny heartbeat. Light radiates from his being, spilling from his eyes like he’s overflowing with power.

Dean… _ is _ light. He’s the light that warms the patches of rug and floorboard beneath the windows, he’s the light that feeds the grass and the flowers and the trees, and he’s the light that warms Castiel’s face. He can see everything, touch everything. He hums and buzzes and  _ sings  _ with life, embraced and embracing.

“What did you  _ do? _ ”

His attention drifts back to the room, to the imposing evil energy by his side; it’s an ugly dark spot that Dean vaguely recognizes as Alastair, but it cowers away from Dean’s light. Alastair is staring out the window, gaping at where the sun hangs in the sky.

Only shadowing a sliver of its light, the sun is eclipsing.

A surge of power ripples throughout his soul.

Dean has a startling realization that it’s  _ him _ .

“I… am the sun,” he says, and his words roll across the room in waves.  _ No, that isn’t quite right _ . “I…  _ am _ .”

“ _ That’s not supposed to be real, _ ” Alastair hisses, and Dean thinks he’s supposed to be the subject of narrowed eyes, but all he can take in is how the shadowy evil shies away from his presence.

He stares at the golden pocket watch burning into his palm, embedding itself into flesh.  _ Not phases of the moon _ , he observes.  _ An eclipse _ .

Dean is momentarily distracted by another gunshot. Facing Alastair, he can see the demon pointing the Colt at him now, and he glances down in time to see the bullet Alastair had retrieved at some point crumble against the glow emanating from his skin ( _ had his split shirt finally fallen from his chest? _ ). Dean stares at the phenomenon with fascination, and Alastair reeks of fear. 

“You can’t destroy me,” Dean says, partially in observation. “I am everything, and I am nothing.”

“So  _ you’re  _ the next to play god?” Alastair sneers. The effect might be a bit more profound if he wasn’t trembling. “Force everyone to bow down to your image?”

Dean doesn’t even bother to acknowledge him. “You were right: I  _ was  _ chosen. I’ll do anything, bear anything… as long as it means my family can be saved.”

Another course of power surges through him, the light sting causing him to shiver. 

“How do you know your family isn’t dead?” Alastair sneers.

“Because I can see them.” Some of them are in better shape than others, but they’re still fighting tooth and nail.

And it’s then that Dean understands where the itch is coming from, the need to scratch away at something that doesn’t belong.

“I can  _ destroy _ ,” he breathes. 

Reaching out, he seeks the ugly and demented souls—the one holding his father against the wall, the ones chasing Charlie and Jo, the one only inches away from slitting his brother’s throat—and curls around them, drawing strength from the sun and siphoning that potential to cleanse them from existence. He can see how everyone’s chests heave with relief, confused gazes darting around for an explanation of the sudden disappearance of their threats.

“No,” Alastair gasps, and then, screams: “ _ No! _ ” There’s no mourning in his voice: only a desperate denial of defeat.

Dean’s not entirely cognizant of how much time has passed, but the eclipse of the sun is definitely evident, and the hands of the pocket watch are slowly but surely crawling around the clock face — he can feel it with the even larger surge of power that washes over him, leaving the ends of his nerves tingling with static.

He finds himself stepping forward, in the direction his arm is apparently outstretched, moved even physically to reach out and embrace his family. Creeping to where rays of sun without life cannot reach, he caresses each and every one of them, consoling them that they are safe now, that no harm will come.

“I can  _ restore _ .”

Gathering more and more power from the sun, diverging more and more energy as the eclipse shadows another fraction, Dean stretches his tendrils of light to all of their wounds: he mends the shattered bone, clears away the tender bruising, seals the bleeding gash, and smoothes over the roughened burn. He absorbs their pain, sapping it from their tired bodies. 

This process takes longer, and he can feel a toll begin to build as he directs the flow of light through his being. The healing is gradual enough that each individual watches how their flesh knits back together before their very eyes with something akin to awe. When he’s finished, he beams with exhaustion as each person prods at where they’ve been repaired with disbelief, and when something clicks in the expression of his mother, he sends her a wave of comfort, assuring her that he’s got everything under control.

Abruptly aware of his physical presence, he can see his shoulders move with every heavy exhale. There’s an underlying and all-encompassing ache that’s settling, but as potential floods over him, overwhelming his senses, he’s compelled to act, compelled to drain it away.

Alastair is staring at him, speechless for once in his life, the last horrible smudge in Dean’s reach. He’s about to do something about it, wipe him away from existence, but with a steadying breath, he remembers why he’s here in the first place.

His head turns so that he can also  _ see  _ with his eyes: across the office, there’s a pulsing energy not entirely unlike his own (which, in retrospect, must have been why he missed it when searching for the human-like ones of his family), though it’s weakened, flickering like a dying flame.  _ The soul of the phoenix.  _

Castiel, seemingly ignorant of the state of his being, is sitting up, propped by his quivering arms. Consequently, the severed flesh that is the remains of his eye is bared, and blood runs down his cheek like a tear. He’s gaping back at Dean with pure awe.

“Do not be afraid,” Dean is compelled to say, “I am here to save you.”

The phoenix’s expression does not change, so Dean lets himself step forward, reaching out until he can hold Cas’s face in his hand. Even though his eye is still wide, staring up at Dean, his soul stretches to embrace Dean’s even further, grasping on tightly to divert the pain.

_ Alastair _ .

_ He is the cause of this. _

Rounding his attention over to the demon behind him, he stands between him and his phoenix like a shield. The demon flinches, but the shadow snaps back with futility, desperate to cause as much damage as possible.

“ _ You _ ,” Dean says.

“ _ Look at you! _ ” Alastair spits, gaze darting manically. “You’re becoming just like me! You won’t be able to stop, and you’ll destroy everything in your path!  _ You’ll destroy everything until you can’t love anymore _ .” He laughs, half-hysterical.

“No,” Dean decides, “I won’t. I can heal — I  _ will  _ heal. And I’ll accept the consequences of my actions.”

“What is a god but someone who decides the fates of men, and then disappears before he can become accountable?”

“You misunderstand me: I’m not good enough to be a god — no one is. I can only do what  _ I _ think is right.”

With the hand with the watch in his palm, he reaches out to Alastair, smothering out the darkness with light. The demon drowns with a strangled cry, fading away until there’s nothing left of him.

The air feels… still. Dean’s energy hums, but without the sickeningly black soul of Alastair in the room, everything is quieter.

Cas is the first to break the silence:

“What have you  _ done? _ ”

“What I needed to do.”

Dean’s voice feels… too loud, like bells pealing through the reverent air of an empty church. His throat is drying, and soon it’ll be difficult to speak without gravel. 

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he says, as softly as he can. He’s turned back now, gazing at Cas’s face, cradled in his palm. 

The hand with the watch is brought over to the other side of Cas’s face, hovering above his damaged eye. It’s from that palm that the most light is radiated, probably blinding if Cas could see, but it’s like Castiel’s soul is magnetized to him, pulling itself towards the watch and entwining itself with Dean’s. Taking a deep breath, he lays his hand fully over the damage and shuts his own eyes, concentrating on diverting all of his energy and will and  _ love  _ through the contact.

When he pulls away eons later, a bright blue eye blinks back up at him.

Smiling, Dean lets his hand trail down, wiping away the tear of blood with his thumb.

“Can you see?” he whispers. He’s not sure why he hesitates, but he needs the confirmation.

“I see you.”

Sighing, Dean beams. “Can you see anything else?”

“There isn’t anything else that matters.”

Dean lets himself choke out a laugh, but it’s short-lived. Cas’s lifeforce is still weak, basking in the warmth Dean’s provides, so he pushes his fingers back through Cas’s hair, flooding him with the healing he needs to repair his broken body.

This time, the process is almost too quick: there’s enough power flowing through Dean that the phoenix is fully restored in seconds. By the time he draws back, his hand is shaking, and he’s vividly aware of the sharp prickling that’s crawling all over his insides. He’s breathing heavier, and it’s becoming harder to push air through his lungs.

Castiel exhales, and then he’s blinking back up at Dean, centered with not a trace of harm on his features. It takes him a moment to furrow his brows and tilt his head, really getting a good look at Dean.

“ _ Dean… _ ” he murmurs, tone laced with concern. 

Dean shakes his head, trying to convince both of them that he’s alright, but he catches sight of the sun outside from the corner of his eye: at this point, about a third of its light is being shadowed. Another surge of power, and Dean almost doubles over.

“You’re dying,” Cas realizes, eyes flying wide open. 

“Burning up from the inside,” Dean coughs, smiling through the agony. 

Cas’s face drains, going strangely blank. “No.”

“At least I saved you, right?”

Panic flooding his features, Cas reaches out, grasping desperately for Dean, to run his fingers through his hair, feel the warmth of his skin. “ _ No! _ ”

In the distance, Dean can see Mary anxiously making her way through the lair, checking rooms and breaking through locked doors. More and more of the group—fully healed, courtesy of Dean—are following her lead, searching for Dean. He and Cas will be found in a matter of seconds.

_ You’ll destroy everything. _

Alastair’s last words echo faintly in his head, haunting him. They shouldn’t bother him—he knows he can prove Alastair wrong— _ but this? _ With another surge of energy, he barely reins himself in, and Dean’s so scared that he’ll destroy, just to  _ let it all out _ , that his hands jump away from Cas and he stumbles backwards.

_ You’ll destroy everything until you can’t love anymore. _

Cas is staring at him with an open gaze, vulnerable with his blatant hurt.

Dean can’t bear hurting anyone any longer.

_ “I-” _ he chokes out, losing his footing as he fumbles away. “ _ I’m sorry… _ ”

_ He needs to die alone. _

Like it’s second nature, Dean spreads out brilliant and glowing wings, taking off and disappearing only a second before the office doors slam open.

His flight is much more uneven than the worst of Cas’s exhausted attempts, where he fades in and out of flight and drags his abused body roughly through the pine forest. Dean is barely aware of where he’s headed, only conscious enough to get himself as far away from everyone else as possible.

At some point, Dean bursts away from the treetops, thrust out towards a mountain peak. He crashes into a pile of rocks, further scraping and bruising his limbs. His chest heaves for breath and his head spins, and the sizzling burn overtaking his senses is almost enough to drown out the other aches — it’s a cruel joke that it’s probably the pocket watch keeping him alive.

_ Why must he be kept alive? Is it to repent? Is it because he has not used all of his time yet? _ He glances to the sky, and the fuzzy image of the sun is probably only halfway shadowed by the eclipse… the power is only halfway to its zenith. Dean squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself not to cry.

_ Repent, repent, repent! _

In his agony, in the screaming pain that sings through every inch of his body, his thoughts tumble to his mistakes, ensuring that he’s well aware of anything and everything that he’s done wrong.  _ All the lies he’s spouted, all the slights of hand he’s made… Little Joe’s death… _ Soon, he will greet the flames of hell, and Dean struggles to imagine how anything can be worse than this.

_ Repent… Is this how he must pay for all that he’s done? _ A wracking sob burns through his aching body.

Who has he wronged?  _ His father? Bobby? Charlie? Jo? Benny? All of the cowboys, his mother, his brother… _ The last expression on Cas’s face, tormented with betrayal, floats at the front of his subconscious.

_ This is what you deserve _ , a small voice in his head tells him.  _ You deserve to die alone _ .

Dean curls himself into a fetal position, burying his head like it’ll ease the suffering. Maybe,  _ just maybe _ , using the golden pocket watch will be enough to balance out his sins.

He doesn’t know how much time passes, but it feels like an eternity. Stuck in his thoughts, stuck in his pain, he lays there quaking, hiding pitifully from everything he ever cared about. As the sun eclipses, Dean only feels the torture mount, feels how the power tingles at his finger tips like a dam on the verge of breaking.

There’s a flutter of wings, and then a voice shouting:  _ “Dean!” _ Someone is stumbling towards him. Dean tries to scramble away, tries to summon his wings once again, but his body is too weak, barely able to contain the power that is overwhelming his senses.

“Dean!” the voice comes again, closer still. Dean shies away, trying in vain to hide himself. His new company collapses by his side, lowering themselves to the ground so that they can face Dean.

“Go away,” he begs. It hurts to speak. “ _ Please. _ ”

“No,” the voice replies stubbornly.

“I can’t have you see me like this,” he chokes out, probably muffled by how he’s curled up. “I can’t hurt you any more than I already have.”

“ _ Please _ , Dean.” The voice is desperate. “It hurts me more to not be with you.”

Dean sobs. “ _ No, Cas, please… no… _ ”

He’s barely conscious of how he’s gently being picked up, pulled onto a lap, too distracted by being burned to the soul. There’s a shaky hand caressing his hair, brushing back the short strands.

Self-deprecating to the end, Dean lets out a strangled laugh. The hand stroking his head pauses.

“ _ What is this to you? _ ” he whispers. Tears burn in his eyes. “Soon, I’ll be gone, and then I’ll just become another part of history, some fleeting memory that you’ll inevitably forget.”

“Dean, I…  _ Dean. _ ” Fingers grasp, scraping against his scalp. “My brother is mortal now. You…” A gulp. “ _ You’re the most important thing that’s happened to me _ .”

Dean smiles, though he suspects it’s probably more like a grimace. “I’m glad I could save your life at least once or twice.”

“N—  _ No, _ that’s not what I mean-”

There’s another surge of power, and Dean whines, tensing so that he doesn’t explode and char the phoenix.

“ _ Get away from here _ ,” he pleads, inching one hand up to clutch at Castiel’s pant leg. “ _ I can’t… I won’t… _ ” Dean’s breath hitches. “ _ I’m scared I’m going to hurt you. _ ”

“You won’t hurt me,” Cas murmurs a promise, but Dean can’t trust him, doesn’t want to trust him.  _ Better safe than sorry. _

As much as he wants to pull away, the temptation to bury himself in Cas is overwhelming: he clings to the man’s scent and the feeling of his soul holding him. Cas’s touch is the last part of reality that Dean can grip onto.

There’s a hitch in Cas’s breath that Dean almost doesn’t notice, but then Cas’s hand stills again.

“Dean.”

He grumbles, too weak to respond properly. Suddenly, he’s being shifted, propped up against the pile of rocks beside him, and Cas is holding up his face so their eyes can meet. It’s too bright, there’s light everywhere,  _ Dean  _ is everywhere, but he uses every last ounce of concentration he has left within him to focus on Cas.

“Please… look at me,” Cas murmurs, and there’s a thumb that swipes across Dean’s cheekbone, wiping away boiling tears he hadn’t known were there. “I need you to let me help you.”

It takes a moment for Dean to process what he’s reaching for, but then he’s doing all in his power to turn away. “ _ N-No… no… _ ” Cas’s steadier hand keeps him in his place.

“Dean,  _ please _ .” He’s begging now. “ _ I can’t- _ I… There’s no  _ time _ , Dean. I need you to let me help you before it’s too late.”

Dean shakes his head. “ _ No, I— _ Cas, I can’t let you do that.” He coughs, and it burns like an inferno. Cas’s hold on him only grows tighter. “I’ve already given you life… please don’t make me take it away from you too.”

“ _ No _ , Dean, you don’t  _ understand _ . You haven’t given me life: you’ve condemned me.” Dean’s head wants to spin at Cas’s words, and another wave of heat washes over him. “You’ll be gone, and one by one, so will everyone else… I’ll haunt this planet in an empty husk. I can’t do that again… not with everything you’ve given me.”

Dean doesn’t answer — he almost can’t, at this point. He tries to look away, tries to shift his concentration, but Cas is all that he can see, all that towards which his light is magnetized and all that he wants to ever feel. Castiel wraps him in the sensation, bringing his other hand to Dean’s cheek so that he’s holding his face between his hands.

“Do you trust me?” Cas whispers.

He has nothing else. Nowhere to go. 

“With all that I am,” Dean replies, and then he’s being pulled forward, falling towards his savior.

Their lips meet, and it’s like a sigh of sweet relief. Cas kisses him gently, pressing harder and harder when only the smallest trickle of glowing light passes through to him. Dean lets himself mould to Cas’s grasp, breathing out the energy that swells within him as the eclipse nears its zenith.

“ _ It’s not working, _ ” Cas gasps against Dean’s mouth. He’s parted only just enough to lean his forehead against the other’s. “It’s not enough.” Some part of Dean is disappointed, but another part is relieved.

“ _ Hey _ , Cas,  _ it’s okay… _ ”

“No,” Cas murmurs. He’s panting, eyes darting from side to side in their close proximity, desperately trying to think of a solution. “I can’t… I  _ won’t…  _ lose you.”

One of the hands slides down Dean’s shoulder until it rests perfectly atop the handprint, like a piece slipping into its place on a puzzle. At the contact, he surges forward, and it’s like their souls entwine at last, humming at where their skin meets. The feeling of the bond is so profound, like everything is clicking into place at last, that Dean’s hands fly up to Cas’s chest, crawling up so that he can cling onto his shoulders. 

Cas’s other hand slowly drifts down Dean’s arm until his fingers brush lightly against Dean’s hand, somehow intensifying the sensation with the trepidation. Gently, he pries it away from his chest, the beating pocket watch from his heart, and laces their fingers together, pressing the golden watch against his own palm.

When their lips meet once again, the minute hand stutters to the half hour mark, and the sun becomes totally eclipsed.

All that the sun has to offer, the peak of the exchange, floods through Dean, and he can barely stand to bear it all, but Cas grips his shoulder and hand tighter, presses deeper into the kiss, drinking in everything that passes through. They sit there, bearing the worst of it together, engulfed in light to the point of boiling over, rooted by the touch of each other’s hands and lips.

Neither are quite sure how long it lasts—perhaps an eternity has gone by—but as Dean gradually becomes more aware of himself, gradually begins to feel the deep-rooted ache and burn that blankets his being, he finds that he’s not the one being supported anymore, and that it’s  _ his  _ grip that’s keeping Cas upright. Cas’s grasp grows so weak that it slips down from Dean’s shoulder, and Dean squeezes the hand with the pocket watch between them as if the action will keep him from falling away.

There’s a point where the remaining buzz is so miniscule compared to everything else before that Dean can’t feel it. Cas is still against him, and Dean’s not entirely sure when he last moved. An answer—in its own way—is presented when Cas completely slumps against Dean’s figure, the only sign of life being the almost undetectable rise and fall of his breath.

Blinking his eyes open a fraction, exhausted from the level of exertion and unused to only seeing from his eyes once again, the unshadowed sun blinding around him, Dean stares down at Cas’s back: burned onto his shoulder blades, spreading far and wide past his limbs in a trail of ash, is the image of Castiel’s wings.

_ Where they used to be. _

Castiel gave up everything about himself. He held Dean and offered him his life, taking half of the brunt from the sun’s power and willingly paid the price.

Leaning against the rockpile, Dean pulls the man into his arms, holding him close. When Cas’s weak grasp slips away from Dean’s hand, the golden pocket watch clatters down to the ground, no longer embedded into Dean’s palm. He bows down to bury his face on Cas’s motionless figure.

And though he doesn’t understand why, Dean weeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> : )  
> yeah. [that scene was illustrated](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27525355).


	20. Dusk and Dawn (+Epilogue)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **!!!** [Here's the censored version of this chapter.](https://docs.google.com/document/d/19O8jzFLxLbB_0wv6CY75YWVYKakNwVnSMzrh1NyzW8k/edit?usp=sharing) **!!!**  
>  _(Very brief — context completely modified.)_

The first time Dean remembers waking, he’s moaning in pain, rolling around in soft bedding with his insides feeling raw.

Almost immediately, there’s someone by his side, coaxing him to sit up with support and drink from the cup at his lips. Dean thrashes (weakly) at first, but at the tone of the calming voice, he relents, letting the comfortably warm liquid run down his throat.

It takes forever for the (what Dean assumes is) willow bark tea (with perhaps a hint of… something else) to kick in, and he isn’t exactly sure if his face is sticky from tears or sweat or both. Blinking his eyes open, squinting against the light, he sees Pay-ati holding him, making sure that he won’t start thrashing again when he eases him back down onto his pillow.

Right… _bedding_. Lazily—and to ignore the lingering pain—Dean drinks in his surroundings: he’s in a decent double bed, in what looks to be some sort of dorm or hotel room. There are flashes of scenes he remembers of being in the chuckwagon, so being somewhere so… civilized is a little jarring.

“We rode down to Santa Fe, because it was faster,” Pay-ati breaks the silence, somehow reading Dean’s mind. Dean lets his gaze stray up to his caretaker and fellow cowhand. “Right now, we are in the St. Michal dorms.” So this was probably Padre Abascal’s room, or at least he had made arrangements for it. Some of the tension eases from Dean.

He’s about to open his mouth, ask more questions about what’s happened since the raid, but he’s stopped with the scratchy dryness in his throat — in fact, the sensation almost feels to extend beyond just his throat. Pay-ati gestures for him to stay silent.

“Burning, on the inside,” he informs Dean. “It is still healing. Only some of us are still here: everyone else rode back to the ranch.”

In his daze, a whirlwind of memories picks up in Dean’s head, and he tries to sit up again when he sees the image of Cas lying half-dead in his arms, frantically glancing around the room for any sign of his presence. 

Pay-ati already seems to understand what’s going through Dean’s head, and does his best to calm him and push him back down onto the mattress. “Castiel is in the next room. He is still asleep, but we have also been taking care of him and watching him very closely.”

Though he’s stopped fighting, Dean’s stare lingers at the door, longing to go see for himself that Cas is still breathing, still okay. Pay-ati doesn’t say anything else about it, but then again, he’s usually very concise, and his stoic expression eases Dean to back down.

“It is good that you are awake, but you need to sleep again,” Pay-ati continues, standing up and gesturing to the water glass and the bowl of soft food on the nightstand. “Your body will be able to direct all of its energy to healing.”

By that logic, Dean will probably need to take a few bites before he passes out again, but he honestly doesn’t feel like eating much at all. Nevertheless, he’s immensely grateful, and digs through his memory to gesture his appreciation (Pay-ati is valued in their little cowboy family for many things, one of which is his fluency in Plains Sign Language — on occasion, Dean has asked to be taught, but he hadn’t kept up with the language nearly as much as he wanted to). 

With a rare half-smile, eyes softening ever-so-slightly, Pay-ati responds in kind before leaving Dean by himself.

Dean almost wants to laugh at the irony, having recalled some of Pay-ati’s background now that he’s got little else to do: Pay-ati’s name means ‘ _Sleeping Sun_ ’ in Kiowa, which is why he and the rest of the cowhands often refer to him as _Sunny_. The sun is all around Dean, and it’s a resting sun that heals his burns. 

After forcing down most of his meal and all of his water glass, Dean lets himself be pulled back into unconsciousness.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Dean wakes a few more times for only brief periods, barely conscious enough to drink more tea and force down some more food. Each time, he sees new faces around him: Padre Abascal, Missouri (who has been lingering in Santa Fe since the storm), his brother and Charlie, his mom and dad and Bobby… While he’s overjoyed to see them in perfect shape, having gotten out of the fight unscathed thanks to Dean, there’s a niggling doubt lingering in his gut as he searches for a face that never appears.

Because he’s been floating through an opium-induced haze for the past while, he’s not entirely sure how much time has passed, but it’s the middle of the night when he drifts to consciousness, more aware than he has been in a long time. Dean stays in bed, not entirely sure if he’ll drift back to sleep, but because of how long he’s been out, it never comes.

Though there’s always a consistent ache, the constant burn all over his body is manageable compared to what it was earlier, so Dean sits up, letting himself simply plant his feet on the ground as he steels himself through the wave of light-headedness. He’s still a bit shaky, but he’s been in this damn bed for far too long.

The only light in the room comes from the moonlight that can drip through the window, but it’s more than enough for Dean to see. Two figures are slumped in chairs near his bed—Sam and Charlie, now that he’s concentrating—having fallen asleep on nurse duty. When Dean finally stands up, wobbling and grabbing the nightstand for support, he’s careful to be light on his feet to avoid waking them.

As terrible as he feels, it’s nice to be up and about again. Dean circles the perimeter of the room, hand pushing against the wall to keep himself upright, and makes his way to the door. The hinges creak as it opens, and Dean winces at the sound, but Sam and Charlie don’t wake, so he lets himself out into the unfamiliar hallway.

 _The next room_ … Dean’s glad that that piece of information was retained over the past… however many days he was out. It’s only a few steps away, and the notion of what lays beyond the door is enough for Dean to quicken his pace.

This door doesn’t creak as loudly, so he can slip inside with much more ease, leaning against the doorframe for support. While there’s an open window, letting in the night, there’s also a forgotten kerosene lamp in the corner, casting flickering shadows against the walls. Gabriel is asleep in a chair on one side of the room, also seeming to have been unsuccessful in his duty (though, in reality, he’s probably not used to being human — the thought weighs heavily in Dean’s heart). 

In the borrowed bed off to the side, Cas lays on his side, just as unconscious as Dean had last seen him. His chest is also bare (and, based on the glisten, drenched in sweat), covered by the blanket that is pulled up to his shoulders. Dean doesn’t even hesitate when he drags himself across the room to settle on the mattress at Cas’s side.

Every line in Cas’s features is weaved with pain, an agony that transcends even his unconscious state. He’s breathing—which is more than a relief—and his heart beats at a steady rate under Dean’s palm, but his skin is hot, and his hair slick with sweat; Dean reaches out to brush back a few strands that stick to Cas’s forehead. 

_How many days has it been?_ It’s probably a miracle that he’s survived this long. Idly, Dean reminisces of how he’s been here before, sitting beside Cas’s sleeping figure — only, this time, he knows who he _is_ , and… well… the future is not as promising. 

The scars Dean had mended time and time again, in his own bed and around a campfire, are gone now, as if their presence had only been dreamt. Dean wants to prefer it like this, prefer every trace of Alastair’s abuse disappeared from Cas’s skin, but at the same time, it erases all the careful work Dean had put into cleaning and stitching them up. He traces his fingers over his forehead and over his cheek—delicately, as if any more force would break Cas—in the phantom memory of each gash.

_If you rip the veins from one’s body, you can’t weave them back in._

When Gabriel became human, he was protected by the watch, and he had almost three decades to get accustomed, to be relieved of the pain.

Castiel only had a matter of days.

On the desk just a reach away, there’s a rag soaking in a bowl of water. Dean shifts to grasp for it, wringing it out before bringing it over to Cas, gently wiping and cooling his burning skin. He tries to ease the tenseness in his brow, as if it could be so easy as to simply wash away the pain.

Dean pauses, finally noticing the burn marks etched onto Cas’s back: though they’re not as inflamed as they had been, covered in ash as he lay freshly burned-out, there’s a blackened imprint of wings that remains on his shoulder blades. He’s too dehydrated to really cry, but something breaks inside of him, knowing that this is a part of Cas that is gone forever.

_Light turned to soot._

The rag is warm again at a worrying speed, but Dean simply refreshes it, rinsing and repeating. His actions gradually become lazier, and he has no awareness of how much time passes, but he has no intention of leaving Castiel’s side.

  
  


* * *

  
  


In the morning, when dawn first trickles into the room, they find Dean lying in someone else’s bed, draped over Castiel’s figure with a damp rag in his hand.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Having passed the worst stage in his healing, Dean remains awake for longer periods of time, poking at food whenever he’s given a meal and almost constantly chewing on willow bark. 

Without fail, Dean always wakes in his own bed, and every time, no matter how much pain he’s in, he drags himself out of his room and directly to Cas’s bedside. His family protests, at first, but Dean’s stubbornness is truly a force to be reckoned with, and at some point, a cushioned armchair is discreetly moved into Cas’s room.

There comes a point where his family is genuinely concerned at how Dean never really strays from Cas’s side, tensing at any groan or hitch in breath, and easing once it’s proven to be nothing more than restless slumber. He can _feel_ their sympathetic stares on him, but he can’t bring himself to care, consumed by listening to the soft puffs of breath from the man in front of him.

About a week after he first crawled to Cas’s room, he finds himself barred at the entrance, Sam standing in front of the door like a bodyguard. This time, Dean’s meager excuses of taking over nurse duty don’t fly.

“It’s not good for you to be staying in one spot like this,” Sam softens, though he still doesn’t step aside. “Just take one hour for yourself, that’s all we’re asking. How long have you been here? A few weeks? And not once have you left this hallway.”

Because it _is_ kind of pitiful, put like that, Dean threatens to be back in exactly an hour, on the dot, before hobbling away.

The stairs down to the main floor of the building are a bit of an obstacle to get down, and even with his poncho the breeze is biting, but after so much burning, the fresh air is welcomed. Dean shuffles across the yard, making his way over to the chapel where repairmen laugh loudly as they work.

It seems so long ago now, but the San Miguel chapel is still undergoing repairs from the storm Dean rode out on back when he first learned of demons. He recalls Padre Abascal saying something about the place looking different when Dean returned, and he was right: the storm had torn off the top two stories on the chapel where the San Jose Bell was housed, and other parts of the roof had caved in. While the repairs seemed more temporary than anything, they were put into place to let the chapel remain somewhat functional. 

“Dean… Winchester?”

The voice is calming and familiar, which is the only reason Dean doesn’t startle. When he glances towards its source, he finds that Padre Abascal has joined his side where he’s leaning over a fence, and he’s greeted with a warm smile.

“It’s good to see you are well, mijo.”

Dean’s not really going to protest. “Thanks, Padre.” He turns away to continue watching the repairmen not doing a very diligent job at being productive.

“You seem troubled.”

His shoulders unconsciously tense. _Is he really that easy to see through?_ He’s in pain, of course, the burns inside of him and the scars left behind by Alastair, but that’s not what hurts him. Dean gulps.

For a while, he debates saying anything. Dean’s never really shared any of his thoughts regarding Cas—not to his mother, not even to Sam—but confessionals, priests… their purpose is to lend an ear, lend consoling advice (even if it’s just a handful of hopeful words), and Padre Abascal is someone Dean _knows_ is trustworthy of upholding that role. Even now, his patience shines through, waiting but not pushing Dean.

“I’m scared,” Dean admits, and his voice is weak like it can barely escape his throat. He stares resolutely at the chapel in front of him, unable to meet the Padre’s eyes. “I’ve never been this scared in my _life_ , I—” He feels his voice about to crack, so he stops speaking instead. Padre must realize that Dean still has something on his tongue, for he stays silent, letting Dean gather the rest of his composure to whisper: “ _I don’t want to lose him._ ”

They stand there in silence for a while, giving Dean time to recollect himself, and in the process, almost forgetting that he isn’t alone. Because when Padre does speak again, it almost startles Dean.

“ _The Righteous Man will laugh at death, but the angel never dies._ ”

Dean whips his head around to Padre Abascal, the shock effectively stamping out a lot of insecurity he had about his confession. The priest is staring out at the chapel, like Dean had been only seconds before.

When he turns to face Dean, he’s smiling warmly, and not unkindly. “I remembered a popular song.” Dean isn’t sure whether to comment on how it’s like the song was written precisely for him, used to be accurate, or mention it at all. “If what I heard is true,” Padre Abascal continues, “then he will not give up. He is strong, and he has much to live for.”

Dean turns back to the workers, rubbing his fingers against his thumb to concentrate on something other than the feeling bubbling up in his chest. He’s right: Dean needs to have more faith in the White Bandit, Angel of the Desert. Plus, Dean did everything he could: he had healed Castiel as thoroughly as he could before they both became consumed with Eusolis. 

_So what is it that he’s so scared of?_

“That is not everything, is it, mijo?”

Dean shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything right away — he’s not completely sure of his own thoughts. He brings his other hand up to his mouth, playing with his lip as he thinks. 

“I’m… not a good person,” he murmurs at last. “Everything I do is wrong. I got half the ranch destroyed and my family hurt… I bring Mom back but no one gets along… I even got that kid _killed_ .” Dean sighs, hearing Sam’, Charlie’, and Bobby’s chiding voices. “I never shoulda let him on that cattle run.” He bites the inside of his cheek, reining himself in. “And Cas? He’s— _well… look at him now—_ and… I thought… with Alastair… I thought I’d… _I—_ ” His nail scrapes at the inside of his thumb. “I thought it’d let me repent.”

“You thought it would give you an easy escape as a hero,” Padre corrects him gently. “Sacrificing yourself for the good of others does not make you a bad person, Dean, and it is not a sin to ask for help. Your greatest burden is the guilt you carry on your shoulders.” 

Dean doesn’t respond, letting the words sink in. Padre Abascal is right, of course, but it’s not something he can accept so easily. He lets the hand by his face fall, arm hanging over the fence with the other so he can play with his hands. _Where is he supposed to begin? How is he supposed to mend what he’s done if the ordeal with Alastair wasn’t enough?_

“It is different, no?”

Again, Dean is startled, and finds the priest staring at the chapel once again. Nevertheless, he’s grateful for the distraction.

“You knew,” he says without thinking. “About the demons, about…” Padre Abascal nods when he trails off.

“This church… did you know it has been here for over two hundred years?” Dean shakes his head, peering at the padre from the corner of his eye with curiosity. “ _Mil seiscientos diez_ … The original was named _La Hermita de San Miguel,_ built by _los Tlaxcalans_ . Many times it has been destroyed—by Luis de Rojas, by _el Rebelión del Pueblo_ —but it is still standing here, old and beautiful.”

Dean pouts. “But the bell tower collapsed. Even now, so many months after the storm, so much of the chapel isn’t restored.”

“Mijo, it is only… _un poquito desarreglada—_ ” Padre Abascal waves his hand as he searches for the translation, “a bit out of place, at the moment.”

Dean laughs. “That might be an understatement.”

“You misunderstand me,” the padre says, shaking his head and smiling warmly. “It will never be what it was, _which is a good thing_. We have a foundation, and we can build it better. Stronger.”

_Oh._

This time, Dean’s silence is contemplative, rather than avoiding. It’ll take more than just a few words to lift the deadweight of his guilt, but for the first time, he feels like he’s been given a candle and a light, and he can _see_ the path before him. He’s still hesitant to take the first step forward, but a start is more than what he had before.

While not overbearing, Padre Abascal’s hand comes to rest on Dean’s shoulder, as if to transfer encouragement through his very touch. “It is easier to give advice than it is to receive it. Let yourself be frustrated, but do not panic.” 

And with that, he’s gone, leaving Dean alone to contemplate the advice he had just been offered.

By the time Dean returns to Cas’s room, a little over an hour has passed, but no one bothers to comment on the discrepancy. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Over the next period of days, despite the fact that he remains at Cas’s bedside for most of the time, Dean relents to the persistence of his family and goes on at least one walk a day; really, it’s good for him, and every day he can feel himself growing stronger. 

Most of the time, Dean ends up visiting Impala and Bee at the livery at which they’re staying. Impala is overjoyed to see her master and almost topples him over in her excitement, and Dean is more than content to spend hours tending to their coats and hooves. Bee at least recognizes Dean, and perhaps it’s the scent of Cas on his clothes, but the Arabian—shy as he is—ends up gently nuzzling against Dean as he tediously brushes out his mane.

At some point, when Dean is rummaging around his belongings, he finds the golden pocket watch wrapped in leather. The find makes him pause: he had heard that his mother had found him and Cas first… did she find the watch, too? Wrap it and stow it away safely? Dean can’t even imagine the distress she would have experienced, finding both Dean and Cas passed out on the top of that mountain with the pocket watch, used and tossed to the side.

Dean finds himself alone that night, sitting at Cas’s bedside with nothing better to do, so he retrieves the watch that had been lying heavy in his pocket all day. 

The golden engravings of the flames from the sun catch the light of the kerosene lamp, making the metal glint as Dean tilts it from side to side. He rubs his thumb against the lid, feeling the familiar grooves of each eclipsing sun. It’s strange, now, holding the object that very nearly killed both him and Cas… then again, it did more for Dean than he could ever hope. The warmth that seeps into Dean’s palm is diminished too, as if the watch is dormant now.

Nudging the watch open, Dean’s not surprised to see the crack in the glass, splitting the clock face in half. 

“ _Nng_.”

Though it’s only a small sound, Dean startles, snapping the watch shut and stuffing it back into his pocket. He peers at Cas, wondering if it’s just another restless dream, but Cas’s face is morphing in discomfort, and he’s shaking his head from side to side as he begins to thrash. Dean’s up on his feet in a second, frozen for a moment as his mind buffers.

“ _Sunny!_ ” he ends up calling out, rushing to the door to get the attention of anyone who would know what to do and have what Cas will need. “Gabe? _Mom?_ ”

There’s more groaning from the bed, and Dean hopes that someone heard him, because he’s turning back around, making his way back to Cas before the door opens wider. Pay-ati is rushing in with Mary in tow, and Dean is stuck in the middle, unsure of whether he should return to Cas’s side or retrieve something.

“Ea—… _nng_ ,” Cas grumbles, reaching out and grasping for something as he squeezes his eyes shut and whimpers.

“You’re alright, sweetie,” Mary shushes him, trying to keep him still. Dean can’t move from where he’s standing, like he’s rooted into the very floorboards. Pay-ati is off to the side, working quickly to make the healing concoction Dean had been on, and Mary is calming the restless man, brushing his hair from his face and holding his shoulders down. “You’re safe; everyone’s safe.”

Cas twists under her hold, crazed eyes darting through the slit between his eyelids. “ _Ea… Dea—?_ ”

Mary turns to look over her shoulder at Dean. “He’s right here,” she tells Cas, not breaking her stare with her son. Dean gulps and finally steps forward.

As soon as he’s close enough, Mary scoots out of the way, and Dean’s sitting on the bedside beside Cas’s legs, suddenly pulled in as Cas takes hold of his shirt with an iron grip that has his knuckles turning white. 

“Hey, _hey!_ ” Dean murmurs, letting himself lean over the man. “I’m right here, man, _I’m alright._ ”

Something clears in Cas’s eyes as he registers Dean’s face in front of his, but his hold doesn’t loosen. Dean reaches to feel the tensed muscles in the arms that hold him, letting one of his hands trace down and linger by his friend’s face and continue the ministrations his mother had been doing only seconds before. At least his breathing is beginning to slow so that he’s not on the verge of a panic attack, and he leans into Dean’s touch like it’ll sap out the pain.

“I’m _so_ glad you’re okay,” Dean ends up babbling, words tumbling from his lips as it dawns on him that Cas is awake, he’s going to be alright. “You were out for so long, and I wanted to have faith in you— _I did!, have some_ —but _god_ , Cas, I was so _scared…_ ”

Dean doesn’t know how it’s possible—as dehydrated as Cas probably is—but there’s just a blotch of wetness in the corner of his eye, and when Dean moves his thumb to brush it away, it’s burning hot. Cas groans as another wave of pain overtakes him.

In record time, Pay-ati’s joined them, holding a cooled cup of willow bark tea. Dean helps Cas sit up, and they both help him drink, not minding the excess that dribbles down his chin; it’s a tedious process, with Cas writhing in pain, but they remain with him until he’s tucked back into the bed, having returned to his slumber.

Pay-ati is already gone, but Mary is sitting in a chair across the room, having fetched for Gabriel only a few minutes prior. She gets up once Cas’s breathing has evened, coming up right behind Dean to rest a hand gently on his shoulder. Dean leans back and against her, weary and grateful for her comforting presence.

“He’ll be alright now,” she tells him, rubbing into the tense muscle under her fingers. “We’re all going to make it.”

Dean lets out a sigh, letting relief fill what had been taut with worry.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The next while passes in somewhat of a blur, alternating between the times Castiel is awake and the times… he isn’t. When he is awake, at first, he’s still half-delirious, and most of his time spent conscious is used to get some food and water into his system.

At first, Dean spends as much time around Cas as he had when the man had yet to wake, but it also gives him the time and space to think. In fact, the longer Cas stays awake, the more frequent he’s aware, the less time Dean spends around him.

Every moment he spends near Cas, he becomes increasingly aware of just what he had done: every groan, every whimper, every cry in the night that has him tossing and turning in pain… It's all Dean’s fault. If he had been a little more persistent, maybe not have used the pocket watch at all, Cas wouldn’t be suffering like this, having part of his very _soul_ ripped from his being and destroyed. 

Not only that, but in a sense, Dean is the one who killed the White Bandit. Without his powers as a phoenix, without immortality—as infamous as the pseudonym is—the West will not have the silent but bold protector they did for all these years. No longer will there be stories like his, like Cassy’s from the bar in Santa Fe… 

Dean had single-handedly destroyed the White Bandit.

_Dean destroys everything he touches._

And he’s surrounded by the evidence: the absence of Little Joe, the way everyone acts like Mary’s a stranger despite having known her for most of their lives (and it scares Dean, just how unfamiliar she seems at times), all the people he’s hurt because Dean was selfish enough to get them involved in his own business… and Cas. God, _Cas_.

Castiel is lying asleep in his bed, his features roughly highlighted by the flickering lantern in the room. Dean has his chin propped up on his forearms that rest on the mattress as he gazes up at the man.

Before, Castiel was powerful. He was _the_ White Bandit. He danced through flames, around taunting demons, taming the fire itself to bow to his command. Dean thinks of those times in flight where the wind would part for them, soaring over land in the blink of an eye as Cas’s strong wings lifted them. He thinks of how they felt under his touch, the feeling of their souls intertwining, embracing to a depth Dean had never felt before and would never feel again. He thinks of the glow behind Cas’s eyes, so filled with not only power but of warmth and _life_.

But the thing is, Dean knows it’s not just his phoenix essence that makes Cas… well, _Cas_ . Cas is the man that looks awkward, like his feathers are ruffled, when Dean or Gabe teases him. Cas is the man that names his “ _phantom horse_ ” Bee, a gentle giant that has a soft spot for his master. Cas is the man that spends hours at the banks of passing creeks, scrubbing out stains because of _course_ his poncho is white. Cas is the man that was so devastated over the presumed death of his brother that he dedicated the rest of his life to avenging the loss, uncaring of his unrightful infamy while he protects humanity from the shadows.

Exhaling, Dean tilts his head to the side, resting his cheek on his arm. He’s sitting on the floor, having foregone the chair for once so that he doesn’t have to strain his neck staring down at Castiel.

Cas is more than just… he’s more than just _that_ . Cas is also the man that always saved him a meal at the railroad front, making sure Dean would always get a portion of the best dish served. Cas is also the man who saw Dean at what he thought was bedrock at the time and _still_ offered his hand, cleaning him up and offering his own hotel bed for the night. Cas is also the man who forgave Dean time and time again, forever adding onto the debt Dean owed him. 

Cas is also the man that rode into the heart of the hearth, only to pull a man he didn’t know from the ashes and save his life.

Dean laughs humorlessly. In all honesty, he almost feels like being saved was—in a sense—damning. At this point, there’s very little Dean wouldn’t do for the man; in fact, here he was, ready to sacrifice himself without any hesitation, just to make sure all the ones he loves would make it out alive, and Castiel is the only other bastard insane enough to do the same, and… 

Dean’s heart stops.

Oh _god_. 

He _loves_ Cas.

His breath quickens slightly, and Dean becomes just a bit dizzy with how fast his head is spinning.

It’s _love_ , _isn’t it?_ It _has_ to be… _or does it?_ _What else could it possibly be?_ He never understood where the lines were drawn, never understood what was just a friendship or just a fling or simply nothing at all. Dean had never really cared much for it before, content with busying himself in his work, pleasuring himself with whoever held an open offer. 

Cas’s breath stutters in his sleep, but then he relaxes, more peaceful in slumber than he has been in a very long time.

 _Castiel doesn’t deserve this,_ Dean thinks, gazing at him with such heartbreaking sadness that his chest physically aches. Dean is not a good person, not to mention the fact that he _hurts_ everything he touches… he can’t do that to Cas. _Not again._

Dean isn’t worthy to love (and perhaps to be loved by) Castiel, for he loves him far too much to condemn him to his side.

Rising slowly, Dean settles onto the mattress beside where Cas is laying, reaching out to brush some stray hairs from his face. In his sleep, Cas leans into the touch, and Dean swallows around the lump that begins to grow in his throat. 

Just this once, before he lets himself accept reality, he’ll let himself be selfish.

Gently—ever so gently—Dean leans forward, pausing and hovering above before he squeezes his eyes shut (willing himself to swallow that damn emotion) and presses his lips to Cas’s forehead, lingering there as he melts into the touch.

With a sigh, he pulls himself away, letting his fingertips linger on the memory of where the scar on Castiel’s cheek had been as he gets to his feet and leaves the room.

  
  


* * *

  
  


One time, when Dean returns from the stables with the full intention to take over nurse duty for the next shift (he still has an obligation to mend the damage done by his hands), he pauses in the hallway just outside the door, hearing two voices conversing from within.

“—seen him?” 

That’s Castiel. Dean rocks onto his toes, knowing he _shouldn’t_ eavesdrop, he _really_ shouldn’t, but a bad habit is a bad habit.

“So it’s not just my imagination, then.” _Gabriel_ . “What did you _do?_ ”

There’s silence, and Dean becomes acutely aware that not only can he not witness any nonverbal communication between them, but that the conversation is about _him_. Almost unconsciously, he balls his fists.

“Would you like me to call for him?” Gabriel asks softly. 

Dean can feel himself leaning forward, magnetized to the room as if he desperately _wants_ to be caught.

“I think it would be best if you didn’t.”

 _Ah_ , Dean thinks, forcing a smile onto his face as if proving something to himself. _There it is_. Something twists in his stomach, vile and deprecating.

Resolve shattered, Dean walks away, heading outside (anywhere but here) with his footsteps creaking behind him.

  
  


* * *

  
  


By the time Castiel is well enough to get out of bed and take short visits outside for some fresh air, all the shoot packs up the chuckwagon and sets out on the Santa Fe trail for the journey home. They thank Padre Abascal and the school profusely, bid their farewells to Missouri, and head off.

Castiel spends all of his time in the chuckwagon, too weak to ride a horse for the entirety of the trip. Dean maintains his distance, letting Impala lead at the front of the party while they ride and keeps primarily to himself while they rest. It’s a long and slow journey, but everyone’s tired, so no one immediately picks up on how neither Dean nor Cas speak, how they don’t sit together and don’t sleep by each other’s side.

In all honesty, if Castiel had foregone this barrier Dean had placed between them, reached through and pulled Dean back, Dean would go to him; Dean almost _wants_ Cas to do exactly that. But he hasn’t. It’s like the fact that Dean isn’t good for him finally got hammered into his head, like he finally understood just _how much_ Dean has taken away from him.

No one has talked of the future yet, either. What Cas and Gabe will do once Cas is all healed up is beyond Dean, but he wouldn’t be surprised if they took off to live the rest of their years in the comfort of the city.

So if Dean is colder at night in his hen skins, if he flinches every time he even hears Castiel’s voice… well, that’s all on him.

It’s when they’re finally following the Cimarron river into Colorado and back into Kansas that Sam pulls Dean to the side. At first, Dean resists, mumbling something about having to go take a piss, but his brother easily calls him on the bluff.

“Give it to me straight:” Sam begins, and Dean looks away, “what’s going on between you and Cas?”

“There’s nothin’ goin’ on between—” Dean mumbles before swiftly being interrupted.

“ _Bullshit_.” Dean can’t look his brother in the eye. “Just because you refuse to understand your own feelings doesn’t mean you get to shit all over Cas’s.”

“I don’t—”

“Dean, I wasn’t born yesterday, _c’mon_ ,” he says, throwing a hand in the air. “I thought you listened to my advice before the raid — hell, I _saw_ you—”

Panicking, Dean’s gaze flickers around them, making sure that no one else is in listening distance (they’re not: the rest of the troupe is sitting around the campfire, finishing their supper and chatting). “ _Nothing happened!_ ” he hisses.

Sam looks tired, more than anything. “ _Dean_ . You followed Cas down to the creek, stayed gone for longer than necessary, and were then _carried back_ by the man. Not to mention you could barely—”

Flushing at the memory of the event, Dean waves at him to cut him off. “Fine, _fine!_ But it was just a fling, _nothing else!_ ” He hunches over himself, staring at and fiddling with his hands. “It didn’t mean anything,” he reiterates, almost as if to convince himself of the fact.

Sighing, Sam settles into his spot, leaning against the boulder behind his back and staring out at the campfire. “It’s not just me, you know: Gabriel’s been worried, too. He won’t admit it, of course,” Sam laughs to himself, “but with how he’s always fretting and complaining about Cas… If you bull-headed idiots would only _talk…_ ” 

Dean shifts, finding the opening he needs to deflect. “Yeah, _tell that to Charlie and Jo…_ ”

There’s silence beside him, and Dean gulps under the tension that grows between the brothers. When he glances to the side, he’s met with an incredulous stare.

“ _What?”_ Dean whines when Sam doesn’t say anything.

“ _You seriously don’t know,_ ” he says. Laughing in disbelief, he runs a hand back through his hair. “You _don’t know._ ”

Dean frowns. “Don’t know _what?_ ”

Sam laughs, groaning into his hands and finally meeting Dean’s insistent stare. “I thought you were more observant than that, but I guess I was wrong… _damn_ , your head is _really_ far up your ass.” 

With a gesture from Sam, Dean looks over to the campfire again, seeing where Jo is sitting in Charlie’s lap. At first, nothing about this strikes him as unusual, as it is a position he’s seen them since the trip to Purgatoire Peak, and…

Oh. _Has it_ really _been that long?_

Dean stares openly at the two in front of the fire, how even from this distance, he can see how Charlie nuzzles into Jo’s neck and how the other girl laughs and leans back into her embrace. They’re so content in each other’s company, and while Dean feels happy for them, terrible for not catching on sooner… his heart is tinged with jealousy, gazing at what he wants most at that moment but cannot have.

“ _Probably means you don’t know that Gabe and I are a thing now, too,_ ” Sam mutters under his breath, and Dean whips around so fast that something cracks.

“ _What?_ ” he roars, incredulous. 

Sam shrugs. “He asked me not long after we met and I said ‘ _why not?’_ ; not everyone’s as emotionally constipated as you and Cas.”

Dean stares at the ground, struggling to wrap his head around everything he’s been told. Hell, he really _has_ been stuck in his own head too much, pitying himself and wrapped up in playing the martyr. 

“Hey, uh,” Dean clears his throat, “congrats, man.” 

Sammy’s gaze softens. “Thanks, Dean.” 

They sit in what is only a mildly awkward silence, because Dean truly does not understand how to address situations like this (and luckily, Sam’s known him long enough to understand this facet of his brother’s personality).

“Point is,” Sam continues, voice gentler, “we see the way you look at each other—hell, you didn’t leave his bedside for _weeks_ —and we don’t want to see you suffering because you can’t do something as simple as talk to each other.” He pouts for a moment. “You _have_ figured out that much at least… right?”

Taking a deep breath, Dean rubs his eyes as a façade to bury his face, garnering what little strength he has to be candid. “I care about him— _god_ , of _course_ I do—I care about him _too damn much…_ ” _You love him_ , something inside of him screams. “But… all that I’ve done, the person that I am… I care about him too much to burden him with someone like me.”

For once, Sam doesn’t chastise him. His silence is almost deafening, making Dean taut with fear, terrified that he’s said too much. Instead, when he peeks out over his fingers, it seems like Sam is actually taking the time to drink in his brother’s words.

“I think,” he starts, mulling over what he’s going to say, “you need to stop putting words into his mouth: let him speak for himself. By inferring and believing it to be the honest truth, you’re just going to hurt everyone. Stop running away just because you don’t understand the entire picture.”

With Dean speechless and Sam having nothing else to say, he offers his brother an encouraging smile and stands up, brushing off his jeans of dust and leaving Dean to consider his advice.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Despite hearing Sam’s advice, Dean continues to ignore Cas for the remainder of the trip back to the ranch — only this time, he’s more aware of himself, and he’s more aware of just how obvious he’s going about his cold-shouldering. 

The thing is, he’s also aware that he should speak with Cas, maybe try and find the right words to hash out some sort of agreement, but every time he tries to approach the man, Cas simply turns away, reciprocating the attitude Dean has been displaying; he certainly deserves it, but the action also makes it infinitely harder to mend anything between them.

Honestly speaking, the entire thing is frustrating. Dean wants to shake Cas for being stubborn… hell, he wants to tear his hair out at how he _himself_ is acting, but the change is easier said than done. Consequently, the feeling festers, mounting inside of him like a pot on the verge of boiling, and Dean knows he’s going to snap sooner or later.

Turns out, it happens not long after they return to the ranch.

Life back at the ranch is… surprisingly regular. Dean attends to all the chores he had taken care of before this entire mess had started, and spends a lot of time fixing up the buildings that had been destroyed from the demon raid all those months back. It’s repetitive work, and it keeps Dean’s mind blissfully occupied.

The main difference, of course, is the presence of Gabe and Cas… and Mary, too. Gabe spends most of his time with Sam, and then Charlie and Jo tend to pair off—and Dean can’t blame them, being new couples and all—but Dean ends up finding himself alone a bit more than he had been on the ranch. As for Cas, he remains in the cowhand lodgings healing, occasionally sitting and reading on the main cabin porch for some fresh air. Dean ends up bonding more with his mother, determined to re-familiarize himself with her by helping around the house, cooking and cleaning and doing the laundry.

It’s a more lethargic evening that Dean spends at the kitchen table, watching as Mary bustles around the room humming. They had just finished washing and drying the dishes, and there’s one of her famous apple pies in the oven, filling the entire cabin with its aroma. Dean feels warmer than he has in a long time, listening to the slow melody she sings as she reveals the perfectly golden pie and leaves it out to cool.

“Dean, can you go and bring this over to Cas?” she asks after they’ve had a taste of the product, handing him a plate with a steaming slice on it. “I’ll save you a piece for when you get back,” she winks. 

He’s well on his way to the cowhand’s dwelling, pastry in his hand, when Dean finally processes his mother’s request. Something tentative curls unpleasantly in his gut, but he continues on with determination.

The floorboards creak under his footsteps, and Dean feels like his presence is too loud, too obvious. Exhaling, he pushes aside whatever uncomfortable hesitation remains and knocks on Cas’s door, letting himself in without waiting for an answer.

“Got pie,” Dean says in a form of greeting.

“I’m not hungry right now,” Cas replies coolly without looking up from his novel. The page he flips is deafening in the silence between them.

And that’s it: that’s his snapping point. He’s not sure if it’s because the pie itself feels personal, like Cas is turning up his nose at something Dean’s mom had put so much love into, or if perhaps it is an accumulation of everything that’s happened, with Cas’s air of nonchalance being the final straw.

The plate slams down louder than Dean intends on the nightstand, and a smug satisfaction flickers across his conscience as he sees Cas jump.

“You haven’t eaten all day!” Dean retorts, throwing his hands up in the air. Seeing how large the gesture was, he crosses his arms and holds them close to his chest.

Cas frowns, side-eyeing Dean. “Yes I have.”

“You weren’t awake for breakfast, and you weren’t there for the lunch or dinner gatherings either.” _I looked for you, sought out your face in the crowd of my family, and still I couldn’t find you._

“That doesn’t mean—”

“ _Dammit_ , Cas: _I was on meal duty all day!_ You’re supposed to be healing, getting your strength back, and I _know_ you didn’t…” He trails off when he realizes Cas must’ve known this fact, and perhaps that’s why he didn’t get anything to eat.

“And why would _you_ care, all of a sudden?” Cas bursts out, shocking Dean slightly. He’s sat up straighter on his bed, novel closed and shoved to the side. “Ever since I woke up, you’ve been blatantly avoiding me—and, _fine_ , I can understand why—but _why would you—?_ ” He makes a frustrated gesture with his hands when he can’t find the correct phrase.

“ _I haven’t been—_ ” Dean automatically shoots back before remembering that, _yeah_ , he’s been avoiding Cas. Sighing, he pinches the bridge of his nose. He really shouldn’t be fighting—hell, he should be _talking_ , like Sammy said—but it’s like a dam is about to burst and there’s little he can do to stop the flood. “Okay, _fine_ , I _have!_ But it’s _not because I wanted to!_ ”

“Then _why—?_ ”

“I—” His voice cracks, so he clears his throat and continues. “I’m no good! I’m a terrible person: I’ve taken Gabe _away_ from you—”

Cas goggles at him. “You brought Gabriel _back_ to me, what are you talking about?”

“—I’ve cut your life short and made you human—”

“I’ve already told you that you _condemned_ me, saving my life—”

“I can’t let you spend the rest of your life near someone like me, I just _can’t!_ ” Dean says, and he hadn’t noticed how his voice had crept up, how his hands had risen to grip at the back of his head. “I hurt everyone around me, and I can’t do that to you again, Cas. _I can’t hurt you again_.”

“Dean, I…” Dean can’t meet Cas’s eyes, doesn’t watch as Cas gapes at him. “You’ve never hurt me.”

Dean scoffs. “Don’t be—”

“No, I’m _serious_ ,” Cas insists, and at least it silences his stubborn companion. “Whatever you think you’ve done… it’s in the past. I don’t remember, because you’ve already been long forgiven — what I _do_ remember is all the times you’ve saved me.”

Taking a deep breath, Dean rubs at his eyes tiredly (and if he’s doing it in a casual way to hide the evidence of the emotion that’s leaked through, then no one needs to know). “I’m not worth it, you don’t know what I’m _really_ like… you don’t have to—”

“ _Dean_ .” Castiel is so steady compared to Dean that he gulps, attempting to compose himself. “Based on what we’ve been through together, I would have thought I’d known what you are ‘ _really like_ ’ the best, by now. Even when I didn’t know you so well, have been through both life and death with you, I’ve always told you that you deserve more than you believe, and I believe this now more than ever.”

Sighing, Dean reaches for a chair, dragging it to where he’s standing so he can melt down into its support. At some point, Cas has turned to face him fully, giving their conversation the attention that had been lacking between them over the past few weeks.

“Sammy’s been telling me to just,” Dean waves his hand vaguely, “‘ _talk it out_ ’, for _weeks_.” He smiles self-deprecatingly. “I dunno if you could tell, but I’m not really great at that.”

Cas bites his lip, and Dean is drawn to the movement. “... What’s your point?”

Dean frowns. “I asked you a few times before this all happened, but… you never did give me an answer: _what now?_ Where… Where’re ya gonna go?”

Fractionally, Cas’s eye’s widen, and the blood drains from his cheeks. “Please don’t ask me to leave,” he whispers, and Dean’s heart shatters.

“No! No, I—” _I could never do that_ . Dean shrugs. “I just… I always thought I’d return back to the ranch, return to my boring ol’ cowpokin’ life… but _you?_ You were just a wanderer: where does a wanderer go now?”

Cas is playing absently with his fingers, and Dean wonders for a moment if it’s a human tic he’s picked up from Dean. “I… honestly didn’t think this far ahead. I thought…”

For some reason, Dean smiles. “You thought the same as I did.”

Cas gulps, avoiding his gaze but nodding all the same.

“Well, I’m not gonna decide for you,” Dean says, getting to his feet. “Talk it over with Gabe, _whatever_ , but I can tell the family’s already taken a shinin’ to you; there will always be room for you here.” The soft smile Cas returns warms Dean to the core.

Unsure of if there’s something else he’s supposed to be saying, or if he should just leave now, Dean puts all his weight on one foot, debating on turning tail and fleeing three ways from Sunday. He’s about to leave, moving to take a step, but Cas stops him.

“Wait.”

Dean pauses, looking over his shoulder. Cas is glancing at the apple pie Dean had already forgotten about, lips parted as if he’s going to add some light thanks for the pastry, but then his fists clench, and Dean tenses.

“ _What…_ ” Cas’s gaze darts from side to side before resolutely landing on Dean. “What _do_ we have? Between us?” His voice is smaller than it has been, and it’s the only thing that really keeps Dean from simply booking it out of there.

“I…” Dean starts, but he doesn’t have an answer. Hell, he’d only _just_ realized he’s in love with the man, how is _he_ supposed to know if there was anything actually going on between them? “I don’t know.”

Cas retracts somewhat into himself. “You don’t _know?_ ”

“ _Yes_ , Cas, _I don’t know!_ ” Dean’s voice only raises because he’s panicking, and when his arms flew up in gesture, Cas flinched. “I never… _I’ve never_ … All I’ve had before were little flings, here and there, at the _most_ . How am _I_ supposed to know what _‘this’_ is?”

Cas’s face crumples, and Dean wants to soothe him, wants to undo whatever damage he’s done, but he doesn’t know _how_ . “And that night? Before Alastair? Was _that_ just a ‘ _little fling_ ’ for you?” Cas bites out.

“ _I don’t know!_ ” Dean responds automatically. “You— I thought you said-—” _What did he even say? ‘I’ve also found you extremely attractive’?_

“You thought I just _let_ you see my wings like that?” Cas asks with a raised eyebrow, and after realizing he had mentioned his wings, his jaw clenches.

Dean’s about to argue, his mouth open and ready to retort, when he laughs loud and clear instead, startling Cas into a look of offense and mild concern. Before he can become too upset, however, Dean waves him off, trying to level himself once again.

“Sorry, sorry, it’s just…” He takes a deep breath. “I just realized we’re fighting over the same thing.” Cas’s brow only furrows, but when something clicks, his features soften.

“ _You…_ ”

“Look: I may not understand whatever the hell _‘this’_ is, but…” Dean exhales slowly, centering himself, “I care about you, more than you could ever imagine. I…” he laughs when he realizes how stupid he’s been, “I’ve been avoiding you because I thought you’d do better without me, and even though it hurt so bad, I kept tellin’ myself it was for your own good.”

Having been so distracted with his own words, Dean hadn’t noticed Cas rising from his bed, stumbling forward and crashing into Dean with an _‘oomf’_. He’s so caught off-guard that he can’t reciprocate at first, but then his hands relax to grab at Cas’s arms and he tilts his head so their lips can slot together with ease.

“I actually used my words for once, so you should at least make an attempt, too,” Dean murmurs as Cas continues to attack him, peppering the corner of his lips and his jaw and his chin with little kisses, twisting Dean’s face this way and that between his hands.

“ _I thought,_ ” Cas gasps, pressing another kiss to Dean’s lips, “you didn’t want me anymore.” Another kiss. “I was… used up.” _Another_. “Worthless.”

“Hey, _hey_ . _Cas_ .” Dean wriggles his face away, trying to get the other to focus. “I’m right here.” He brings one of his hands up to cover a hand on his cheek, coaxing it down so he can curl its fingers around his grip and press his lips against its knuckles. “I’m sorry about that— _I really am_ —but didn’t anyone tell you I couldn’t leave your bedside the moment I woke up?”

Cas pouts. “What else was I supposed to think?”

Dean smiles against Cas’s hand. “That you’re the most important person in this bunch.”

Even though he rolls his eyes, Cas has a matching smile. “How could I ever think that when you’re standing right here?” Dean is about to protest, but Cas simply presses his held hand against Dean’s mouth to stop him from speaking. “Stop downplaying yourself: if I have to remind you how much you mean to me and everyone else on this ranch each and every day of my life, then so be it.”

Blushing, Dean stares down at the hand he’s holding and gives it another kiss. “In comparison, there’s not much of it left,” Dean murmurs, because damn him, he can’t accept the way things are for _one_ moment.

“Oh,” Cas sighs, and then, _of course_ , he reads Dean’s mind. “You… maintain a false presumption: I am being wholeheartedly honest when I say there has been no one else like you. All of my life, I’ve only been concerned with running away and moving on, staying at my brother’s side as we watched history pass us by; I still don’t know what drew me to you in that prairie fire, but somehow, you’ve changed my life. Being mortal, all of yours, you cannot understand, but… you gave me a future I never thought I could have. 

“I need you to understand that I love you not only for all that you have done for me, but for all that you have been and all that you ever will be.”

“I—” Dean is so overwhelmed with emotion that it chokes him, and what feeble words he had on his tongue don’t make it out. He shuts his eyes and the corners of his lips twitch with the feeling, so intense that his head feels heavy. When Dean lets himself fall forward slightly, Cas’s other hand slips down to catch him, and then there’s lips pressed soothingly against his forehead.

For a moment or two, they stand there in each other’s embrace, content to listen as their breaths sync. Once Dean finally calms, he laughs softly under his breath.

“Back when this all started,” Dean first says, “back when I was still looking for answers, I met this… this girl you’d saved. I was trying to get some of your legend out of her, _anything_ , and you know what she told me?”

He can feel Cas’s grin against his skin. “ _What?_ ”

“She said the White Bandit steals people’s hearts.” Dean shifts his expression so that he’s teasingly serious, nodding his head as he adds: “And you know what else? I’m starting to believe that might not have all been just talk.”

There’s a puff of breath against his skin, and then they’re both giggling.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You love me for it.”

“Unfortunately.”

They sigh, recentering themselves, shifting to relax into a more comfortable embrace.

“I’m sorry.”

Cas hums in question. 

“If I hadn’t been so damn bull-headed, we probably coulda had this sooner.”

“If that’s the case, then I’m sorry as well.”

Instead of denying or trying to one-up the statement, Dean hums his acknowledgement. “One of us is gonna have’ta learn how to be selfish.” After a beat, Dean clears his throat. “Oh, and, uh, if I forgot to say it… me too.”

“Hmm?”

“I thought I was happy with my life as it was, but with all that you’ve done, how my life has changed since you first saved me… thank you, for that. I’ll always be yours, if you’ll have me.”

Not too long after, wrapped up in each other’s company, Dean rides Cas, languidly guiding the pace despite the hands that hold down his waist. (Dean had already made some absolutely _amazing_ jokes about riding earlier, _thank you very much_ ).

At some point, Cas sits up, propping himself against the wall so Dean can still move relatively freely in his lap. Dean’s hands trace Cas’s shoulders, fingertips barely brushing over the tattooed remains of wings that slope down his back.

 _Does Dean regret taking away this part of Cas?_ Most definitely. Even in times like this, he finds himself yearning to reach out, yearning to intertwine their very souls, but the notion isn’t as possible as it once was. Nevertheless, Dean wraps his arms around Cas’s neck, letting his fingers brush against Cas’s shoulder blades as if they could still touch the stronger branch of each wing.

As he arches into the feeling, leaning in and letting his lips be caught by Cas’s, Dean feels fingers trace up his arm, barely dusting over the raised mark of a handprint branded onto his shoulder. Knowing it’s Cas, knowing Cas is all that surrounds him, Dean’s sensitivity is only heightened. The hand slots itself over the mark like a puzzle piece sliding into its place, and Dean _burns_.

There’s a part of Cas that has been lost somewhere in all the things they’ve been through, and in a sense, there’s a part of Dean that has been lost too.

But—shuddering in the other’s hold, letting a sense of tranquility wash over him through his euphoria—Dean finds that he can’t bring himself to care.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


**_Five Years Later_ **

  
  


Impala's head is bent toward her master, peacefully nibbling on the richer grasses at her hooves. Her ears twitch and she swishes her tail in lazy contentment.

Her master Dean Winchester is seated just in front of her, watching the rolling valleys beneath his feet. There’s a canteen in one hand and his arms hang over his knees as he watches, waiting for the sun to rise.

Dean likes it out here. The world offers him only the sky and the prairie, rolling for endless acres into the heavens… Dean knows it all like the back of his hand: he grew up here, after all. It’s familiar enough territory that it’s somewhere he calls home. (Even with how far he’s traveled, it’s a place to which he always longs to return). That’s why he’s happy: tending cattle on his beloved mare and saving people from the supernatural for the rest of his days with his beloved by his side, Dean Winchester is in apple pie order.

The first rays of sun peek up over the horizon, adding to the orangey-pink tang of the clouds above, and Dean hears hooves behind him slow to a trot as they approach. To pretend he isn’t listening, he takes a sip from his canteen as he keeps his eyes trained on the valley below. Someone’s boots land on the ground with a soft _thump_.

“There you are.”

Dean recognizes the voice immediately.

Smiling fondly, he tilts his head back far enough that his hat slips off, watching Cas approach and dust his fingers over Dean’s shoulders. 

A lot has changed over the past few years. While John still works on rifle manufacturing and Mary and Bobby still do some work with the horses and the cattle, both Charlie and Jo have taken over a good portion of the ranch with plenty of help from Benny, who has also become an official member of the family. Gabriel and Sam, however, moved to the city not long after, when Sam finally expressed an interest in getting some schooling; Sammy is well on his way to studying law now, and while the ranch isn’t quite the same with them gone, they visit at every opportunity, and Dean and Cas will often stop by the university if passing through town.

Both Dean and Cas enjoy cowhand work as much as anyone else in their little family, but both had agreed that they felt a lingering guilt to knowing that there is an evil in the world and not doing anything about it. Thus, they took up hunting and handle any cases of which they catch wind. An interesting side effect, however, ends up being that they encounter too many orphaned children in their travels, and, as fiercely protective as he is, Dean consequently adopts them; it has gotten to a point where he often refers to the ranch as the _Singer Orphanage_.

John had also made an effort to reconcile and change his ways; he’s not perfect, but the fact that he’s trying is enough for Dean. He and Mary have grown closer again, and while she’ll be wary about how John is with the boys, they come to understand each other once again. Even with Sam and Dean, John does his best to attend to them, whether it’s helping Sam pack and move to the city and buy new books, or whether it’s patiently spending time with Dean to show him new hunting techniques over a bottle of beer. Mary also makes a huge effort to connect with Sam, encouraging him to tell her about what he’s learning and remembering to make his favorite foods and pastries every time he drops by. 

One of the biggest achievements Dean has done thus far is to successfully replicate functional bullets for the Colt; because he’s hunting, he doesn’t mind possessing the peacemaker because it actually comes in handy in a pinch. At some point, Dean had brought the revolver to his father, and together they analyzed its mechanism, figured out exactly what makes the bullets functional. Now, Dean always has a decent supply of bullets for the Colt on hand.

Cas’s hand squeezes Dean’s shoulder, and with the hand that isn’t holding his canteen, Dean reaches up and covers the fingers there with his own.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Cas murmurs.

Dean grins lazily, filled with contentment. “I can’t believe you had a song written about you.”

Cas huffs out a laugh, and Dean can almost see the roll of his eyes. “It was not entirely factual… and with me being human, now, the myth is also dying out.”

“I still hear it around,” Dean hums. The White Bandit’s legend still thrives as a wives’ tale, and every once in a while they’ll hear of a new sighting, which becomes somewhat of an inside joke between the two, as they are some of the few that are actually aware of the Bandit’s demise. 

“The last two verses,” Dean continues, biting his lip as he tries to recall the lyrics. “I don’t think I ever understood what they were supposed to mean.”

“Hmm?”

_“They say there’s one who’s by his side,_   
_In time, they’ll be each o’ers demise._   
_The Righteous Man will laugh at death,_   
_But the angel never dies.”_

Cas nudges him gently. “I think ‘ _the Righteous Man_ ’ is supposed to be you.”

Dean blinks. He’d never… considered that before. _Why would_ he _be written into the song?_ With that piece of context, everything slides into place, making infinitely more sense, but it still strikes him as odd, how the song itself predicted the future. (Then again, maybe there is more than just one Missouri Moseley in the world, touching upon magics Dean has never considered before).

“But what about the last verse?” Dean persists.

“What about it?”

_“In time, the Righteous Man shall fall,_   
_And out of flames he shall arise;_   
_Only by him can suns be reigned,_   
_For a mortal never dies.”_

Dean is met with silence at first, but based on the absentminded movement of fingers on his shoulder, he presumes it’s more out of thought than anything.

“Maybe the prairie fire?” Cas begins. “That night we first met.”

“And the suns…”

“Mhm.”

“Still doesn’t explain that last line. ‘ _For a mortal never dies_ ’… _the fuck is that supposed to mean?_ Doesn’t even make sense.” Dean shifts in his spot, not voicing his discomfort at what the line could imply.

This time, when Cas doesn’t reply, Dean has an inkling that it’s because he doesn’t have an answer either. Dean sighs, not willing to dwell on the issue.

“I know the song exists,” Dean says, returning to an earlier topic, “but do you think our story will ever be written down? Like all those books Dad has in his library, or those tomes in Sammy’s room.”

“Not unless one of us writes it all down.”

Dean scrunches his nose. “And why would I do that?”

Cas laughs, and Dean smiles when he feels one of the hands traces up his neck, running fingers through his hair. He leans into the touch, reveling in the presence of his beloved.

Dean is not entirely sure if he’d like his story written down: on paper, it would feel… permanent, and out of his control, once set free into the world on ink. Then again… _how permanent is a mere story, told once and to a select group of individuals?_ Castiel’s legend as the White Bandit is great, but it doesn’t hold much truth (or rather, it was misperceived), and even so, its lifespan is reaching an end as more and more storytellers forget the words, forget the verses.

We revere myths and legends because we see them as beings out of our control, unique tales that intrigue us until we forget about them. Human nature, however, as flexible as it is, is so complex and inspiring that the story of one person is repeated over and over and over again, reflected in those who hold the same values, those who fight for the same cause… and because of this, their story never dies.

Dropping his hand, Dean reaches around himself to place his hat back on his head, accepting Cas’s hand to help himself to his feet. Dean leans in to peck Cas’s lips in thanks, and then he’s staring out at the dawn once again, watching how the morning light paints the sky.

In his duster coat pocket, a small object that Dean doesn’t think much of anymore bumps against his hand. He curls his fingers around the strangely cool metal and pulls it out.

The golden pocket watch glints in the sun, drawing both of their gazes. Cas stares at it for a long while in surprise, having not seen it in many years.

“I didn’t know you still had it,” he finally breathes. As wondrous as Cas is, he doesn’t dare touch the object. 

Turning it over, Dean takes a long look at the carvings in the metal, memorized to the touch. When he nudges the lid open, the clock face is stopped at noon, split down the middle with a crack in its glass.

Dean lets the watch slip from his hand, dropping to the ground below him. Cas doesn’t say a word as Dean steps forward, obscuring the open watch underneath his boot as he presses into it, forcing the glass to crack and splinter until loose shards escape into the dirt. Without needing an invitation, Cas lends his own boot, holding down the lid so they could snap the watch completely in half.

Once nothing else can be destroyed, Dean crouches down to pick up the remains, shielded from the glass shards by his riding gloves. Though he managed to keep the clock hands in his palm, tiny gears and springs lie forgotten behind, soon to be lost in the wind and buried in the earth.

For just a moment, both he and Cas stare at what’s left of the golden pocket watch, fragmented and cold against Dean’s skin. Then, Dean is curling his fingers over it in a fist, winding himself back before casting it over the cliff and over the rolling valleys spread far out before their eyes. 

Split into broken pieces, the golden pocket watch flies through the air, catching the morning sunlight and reflecting it back like the winking stars of the night… and that’s the last they ever see of Eusolis.

Standing side by side, Dean and Castiel remain, bathed in the warm glow of dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, "editing" this last chapter: haha, this idiot's watched too much star trek

**Author's Note:**

> Ah yes, the fic that tossed me with abandon into a cowboy hyperfixation... good times. (Can you believe I hadn't seen any westerns until about halfway thru writing this? (And even then, it was only Blazing Saddles, High Noon, and after I finished writing it, The Good The Bad The Ugly and Warlock...) Me neither — I simply saw Dean havin' a grand ol' time bein' a cowboy and thought yep, this is it. This is what's happening now.)
> 
> LAST REMINDER TO GO LOOK AT [ARTMETICA'S ART](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27525355) FOR THIS FIC AND GIVE HER ALL YOUR LOVE BECAUSE IT'S ABSOLUTELY GORGEOUS
> 
> If ya ever wanna find me and chat or even just stalk me, I'm always on tumblr at [my main blog](https://universalsatan.tumblr.com/), [my writing blog](https://celestialberries.tumblr.com/)... ~~and I guess I'll drop[my dean blog](https://wincheister.tumblr.com/) here too~~
> 
> If you're looking for another cowboy fic, keep your eye out for [maggie's dcbb fic](https://cas-s-sinoatrial-node.tumblr.com/post/633779671684743168/title-from-valley-to-valley-and-onwards-author), as we literally became friends through dcbb by finding out we had the same brain about many tropes ;^)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[ART] Mortal One, with the Sun in His Hands](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27525355) by [Artmetica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artmetica/pseuds/Artmetica), [UniversalSatan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniversalSatan/pseuds/UniversalSatan)




End file.
